


r ~ if 

\0 © $ 

^ ^0 0 * 
<^. * 0 N 0 - O 

* Y * 0 A ^ 



aV * 


' • *• « « "V 7 ' : " >! 

' . c *& ^ /* ,'4k- 0 

' w :im£* - *•*- v* • 

>, 0 ^ 


■H Xj. 





f VJ 

V ^ 


O 0 
H ^ 


*> 

*> 

y 


'-’ ''" * ^7/iD:W £ vV ^ , 

X ^ ^ V 


*'*«,% "'"' OV'V'-v 




^ v, c 


w <\^' </>« 
*> <\v </* 



W’JL* %%!'•* ''^' 



* 

Q 

$ cv> 

A '0 o . 

.-*•' * Y * 0 /- "'Cv 

A* </rA < §>#/l> ^ V 

P I 2 z , 

•/>, I " : r-- : : c O «<. ® 


0 •;< 'm 

-./> k., a? 


lie. |\J ^ 

Y 0 « 

■'* A 

/ 
V* cT 

<$* 

* ^ 


'/* 1 * <f S ^ 

* © ,Cv " v 

K . <* -O Cr ' 

^ v . *bo ( : 


i> 

:< ^ 

* ^ 

??- % / 
^ Y 

p; >°°- 
»’* .0° 


/• 

0 ^%v* 0/ . C % Jr «M* V ^/» a H0 ^ ^0 _ 

& 1 *** , % % V ^ J O'" 0 ' * 

%■ "M/)), e N>. .aV ^ /T *£ 







* 

* \*' V ° 

O * g , r ^J> ' * 0 K Q^ S" 

S * 0 t *Q' 0 s s T * > ,9 ; A* 0 /" 'C 1 

9> /b* r ^ A * -i> A^ 

/ /h O </>_ ts ^=^lllllllilll»^ r- <*S 

7L 




%■ A 


« c> %<. 

* v 


< 


© 0 


'</>. "■ 

-i -' 'Kt \ 

^ A X t oNo- ^ ** s . 0 ^ v *'- ,s * ' 

A v . e *^lrjg, • '''°o' : • spfP' i : 

1 TV • E**g>. \ 0 °<. ,^K®‘ .-It,, * JSMr>o 

<1 CA ^ ^Ct*/ ^ O. 1 C*A ✓ VK > 5 ^ <* 

* * ^ * ° H ° ° . Y * 0 * ^ * * 1 1 # \> V S * * / , f * ° N 0 ’ <0 

. <* - 

<6 ✓ x or ^ ^ ^ d* 

A // 

» X .\ ^ 




i ; * A 


A ° 

* v? v- j 

■ r % f V ^ * , 

<: S .0 <T y 

S ^ * V * 8 « 

rVJ s -i sfj . 

C “ ' v * Ks, A 

> 0 < *• 

^ » J, 0 °* 



a* t 











FLORINE: 


OR, 


THE INNER LIFE OF ONE OF THE 

“ FOUR H UN D RE Dr 


BY THE AUTHOR OF 

“ Mignonnette,” “ The Devil and I, 
y Etc. 




-^we 0 4®^N 

On y 



G. 


NEW YORK: 

Copyright, 1891, by 

IV. Dillingham , Publisher , 

Successor to G. W. Carleton & Co. 

MDCCCXCI. 

All Rights Reserved . 





• A42.'l'F 




compiler’s preface. 


Should any one imagine that the compiler of these 
leaves from a Journal desires to pose before the 
public as one of the “ Four Hundred,” never would 
there be a greater error. As the compiler, only, of 
these pages, she stands simply as god-mother to 
them ; and it is nothing to her that the actual writer 
of them may claim the doubtful distinction that sets 
apart certain members of la haute societe. 

There are parts of this Journal, of course, that are 
entirely left out ; but what is given to the public is 
given precisely as it is written. 

There have been other Journals published “ pre- 
cisely as they were written but they were written 
with the desire or the intention to publish them . 

Can any one be persuaded to believe that such a 
Journal, though true, would be the truth ? — No. 


VI 


PREFACE. 


But one has only to read these confessions of 
Florine to know, beyond a doubt, they were never 
written to be seen; that nothing ever was further 
from the mind of the writer of them than the desire 
or the intention to have them seen. 

This, then, is a Journal of the truth — of th zu?iequiv- 
ocatedy unvarnished truth. 

But what has impelled this woman, so finely 
sensitive and so daintily proud, to trust her heart- 
pages to the compiler — to the public ? This we are 
not permitted to answer. 

And whether Florine is still a part of this certain 
society — an unknown quantity in it ; or whether she 
lives apart, self-banished from it — is also the secret 
of her who stands for 

i - 


THE AUTHOR. 


FLORINE: 


1867 . 


May 6 . — I am nine years old. I am going to keep 
a Journal. Papa says : 

“ For heaven’s sake ! Florine, don’t write about the 
weather, and what time you go to bed, and what 
time you get up ; don’t write about anything that 
everybody knows happens every day to everybody !” 

Papa says this is the way children begin to write 
in their Journals ; and that it would take a great 
deal of time to write down what I should never care 
to read. I am to put down what seems to be unusual, 
and what interests me ; what I feel the most and 
think about the most. I am to write as if I were 
telling a story. 

This is what I think to-day : that when I am 
“ grown up ” and married I shall have a daughter, 
because mamma has a daughter — that’s me ; and I 
shall write this Journal for her to read. 


8 


FLORINE. 


“I must tell you this, my daughter: that your 
grandpapa and grandmamma are very rich. It 
seems money has to get everything ; it seems, too, 
that we have to give money to every one that does 
anything for us. Everybody wants money. 

We are in the country for the summer. This is 
our house. It is a big, splendid house. We have a 
town house, too. It is also a big, splendid house. 

May 16. — I do not love ugly things. I think I 
love kittens better than anything. I like to have a 
kitten on my lap. 

I only like sweet-smelling things. Cows smell 
sweet. I love cows — little dainty cows like our 
Pansy. We call her Pansy because she has big, soft 
eyes like pansies — the violet and yellow pansies. I 
put my arms about her neck and squeeze her, 
squeeze her, like I do my mamma ; like I want to do 
to anything that I love that way. 

But I don’t like many things “that way ; ” only 
mamma and papa and the little fluffy chickens, and 
kittens and flowers. I don’t love horses ; they are 
too big. Dogs smell too doggy. 

May 19. — There is something I love better than 
kittens ; it is to have mamma rub me all over with 
her soft hands. It makes me shiver just like — well 
— it makes me shiver good. 


FLORINE. 


9 


May 23. — I love Heaven because God lives there. 
I love God because mamma loves Him ; because she 
says He is greater than any man or woman ; that 
He is greater than papa, greater than a king. 
Mamma says God is kinder to me than she is, and 
that He loves me more than she loves me ; and that 
if I ask Him for things that are good for me He will 
give them to me. 

I like to see things that I love, and I like to see 
people I talk to. I cannot see Heaven and I cannot 
see God ; but mamma says God is with me all the 
time, and that He sees me and hears me the same as 
she sees me and hears me. So this is how I feel — 
that God is always seeing me and hearing me ; so I 
tell Him everything I want, just as I tell mamma. 
When mamma doesn’t listen to me I keep on asking 
till she does. If she will not give me what I ask for, 
she says it is because it is not best for me to have 
it. So I keep on asking God to give me things ; and 
if He does not give them to me, I must believe they 
are not good for me. 

May 26. — I don’t know why any one should think 
enough about the weather to want to write about it. 
I don’t mind the weather. When it rains I stay 
indoors and read about beautiful ladies and men ; 
men who were brave, and who went to the wars and 


10 


FLORINE. 


left their wives or their sweethearts in their splendid 
castles till they — the men, not the castles — came 
home. And when they came home all “ covered 
with glory ” (glory is a noun, “ the name of a thing,” 
my grammar says ; but I don’t think it is the kind of a 
tiling one can use for a cover) when they came home 
all covered with glory, and with their helmets all 
shining in the sun, what a proud day and a glad day 
it was for their wives and sweethearts, who went out 
to meet them, and who fell on their necks and kissed 
them — the men, not the necks — and they lived happy 
ever afterward in their castles. 

Had I lived in those days I should only have had 
to write what happened every day, and I would have 
a real story book. 

I wonder if strange things happen in these days — 
romantic things, dreadful things ? I don’t see them 
happen. 


May 27. — I know what “covered with glory” 
means. I asked papa ; and then I let him read what 
I have written. He laughed. It must be either 
funny or stupid. But he says I am not to scratch it 
out. 

June 2. — I suppose grown-up people wonder what 
children think. The most I think is to wonder. I 


FLORINE. 


11 


am always asking myself why people are as they are, 
and why things are what they are. Often I ask 
people questions that make them laugh. Often they 
do not answer them, and I do not believe they can, 
Often I look in my dictionary and in books ; but 
there are many things I cannot find the meaning of. I 
shall keep them in my mind, and when I am grown up 
I shall see if I understand them better than I do now. 

I know one thing — I feel what I think ; and the 
things I feel the most I think the most. 

June ii. — I am happy when I can lie on my back 
under the trees in the sunshine, and look straight up 
through the leaves to the blue sky. I don’t feel that 
I want anything but to lie there. I don’t think at 
all ; but I feel all over good. If any one disturbs me 
I get in a rage. 

But I know what makes me happiest. It is to be 
on mamma’s lap, with my arms about her neck and 
my cheek to hers, and to have her talk wise to me as 
if I were a big girl. When any one interrupts us I 
get in a rage. 

What makes me unhappy is when anything is 
hurt, or when anything is killed — the birds and the 
little flying things ; the worms and the toads that 
people tramp upon and that bad boys hurt. And 


12 


FLORINE. 


the poor little calves and the pretty sheep ; to think 
that people kill them — kill them for us to eat ! 

If I could make a world I should have nothing 
ugly, and nothing to hurt, and nothing to die. 

But what makes me unhappiest is when I do 
something that mamma does not like. No matter 
whether she says a word or not ; she has only to 
look at me with her soft eyes as if she is surprised, 
and the sobs come up in my throat. 

I think I am more afraid of being hurt like this 
than of anything else. I am not afraid to be alone 
in the dark ; I am not afraid of tramps ; I am not 
afraid of punishment — but I am afraid of this lump 
in my throat. It makes me feel as if I were going 
to choke. I believe I should die with the choke, that 
keeps getting bigger and bigger, if mamma wouldn’t 
say she forgives me and that she isn’t hurt any more. 

July 5. — Nono and his papa have come. Nono’s 
real name is Lionel ; but his papa calls him Nono, 
and we call him Nono, too. Nono is to stay with us 
while his papa goes to Saratoga and Newport, and — 
everywhere. 

Nono is the prettiest boy I ever saw. He is ten 
years old. He has always lived Abroad, but he can 
speak English very well. 

Nono’s mamma was an American. She was my 


FLORINE. 


13 


mamma’s dearest friend. When they were children 
they played together. So you see we are like cous- 
ins, Nono and I ; and it is quite natural that we 
should like each other. But Nono's mamma is dead, 
and besides loving him, I pity him. 

July ii. — I like Nono better than any girl. I 
never was so happy as I am with him. He knows a 
great many things, but he doesn’t seem to know them 
like other boys do. Other boys seem to think it is a 
great tiling to be a boy, and they want to make girls 
think it is a great thing. Nono isn’t like that. 

Because, to-day when we were in the park, in a 
little shady corner under the trees, he asked me 
which I would rather be — a girl or a boy. I said I 
had always thought I should rather be a girl, 
because a pretty girl is prettier than a pretty boy ; 
but that since I had seen him I would rather be a 
boy, a boy like him, with pretty ways, and a mouth 
like a rose — a wee red rose. 

“ Florine,” he said, “ I should rather be a girl. 
Because, were you a boy like me and I a girl like 
you, I would let you kiss me.” 

I told him I thought it was nicer that he was a 
boy — because I should like him to kiss me. Then 
he kissed me. 

I liked it. 


14 


FLORINE. 


July 12. — Estelle saw Nono kiss me yesterday, and 
told mamma. I hate Estelle, because she laughs at 
me, and says Nono is my little lover. I shall vex her 
all I can. I shall tell mamma that she goes off every 
day, when we are out to walk, to meet her lover. 
No, I won’t ; that is the time Nono and I are happi- 
est together. 

July 13. — Nono makes me very happy. We like 
best to be in our little corner under the trees. 
To-day Nono said : 

“ Florine, you have pretty stockings ; let me see 
them — all the way up.” 

When I let him see, he said : 

“Your little knee is prettier than your stockings ; 
it looks like a snow-ball.” 

Then he touched it with his soft little hand — as if 
it were a snow-ball ; then he kissed it. 

I like this second kiss better than the first 


July 14. — Nono has just told me that I mustn’t 
tell mamma, or anybody, that he kissed me yester- 
day. 

This is my first secret. I have never kept any- 
thing from mamma. I don’t feel quite right in 


FLORINE. 


15 


keeping this from her. Besides, mamma has often 
told me that if I should do anything I couldn’t tell 
her, I might be sure it was a wrong thing to do. 
Well, it rains to-day, and we shall not go out to the 
park ; but to-morrow I will not let Nono kiss me, 
and I shall see if I feel better. 

* * * * * * * 

° Florine : — You are my little love and I love you. But 
you mustn't pout like you are doing to-day ; and you must 
let ?ne kiss you again like I did yesterday. You said it 
was nicer than the other kiss. Good-bye j I love you. 

“ Nono.” 

This is my first love letter. Nono handed it to 
me this evening. I have pasted it in my Journal, to 
keep forever. 

I have not been pouting to-day, as Nono thinks. 
I am troubled about that last kiss — the kiss. It was 
very nice, and I liked it ; but why doesn’t Nono 
want me to tell mamma ? 

July 15. — Mamma knows all about it. She read 
my Journal last night. I had hidden it — I thought. 
Mamma said she couldn’t love me if I would keep 
things from her like that. 

Mamma didn’t say it was wrong for Nono to kiss 
my knee. But when I told her it was nice — nicer 


16 


FLORINE. 


than a flower ; and that I liked it as well as a flower, 
she said it wasn’t nice, and that when I was grown 
up I should know why. 

After I was in bed mamma told papa. They 
thought I was asleep. Mamma was very solemn, 
and papa was angry. I trembled all over. But 
when mamma told papa what I had said, he 
laughed. 

u Florine knows what she likes,” he said. “ After 
all, the child has done nothing wrong, so long as she 
doesn’t know what the wrong is.” 

I felt better after that, and went to sleep. Papa 
is a darling. 

How can mamma say it isn’t nice ? She doesn’t 
know anything about it. I think she is jealous of 
the kiss — because I liked it. 

Well, no one else shall ever kiss me like that. I 
would scratch the eyes out of any boy’s face if he 
should dare to kiss me ! Boys are not nice enough, 
not dainty enough. They don’t have the pretty 
little ways Nono has. Nono isn’t so boyey. He is as 
sweet as a sweet girl ; he is as sweet as me. 

And then papa says I know what is good. I do 
know ; Nono’s kiss was good. 

July 1 6. — I am very unhappy/ Nono’s papa is 
coming, and Nono is going away. Mamma has 


FLORINE. 1% 

given Estelle orders not to leave Nono and me 
alone. 

This is what comes of being happy without tell- 
ing mamma. It is mean of mamma to read my 
Journal. But I suppose it was wrong in me to want 
to hide it so she couldn’t read it. 

And there must be something still wrong when I 
can say mamma is mean. She is not mean. She 
couldn't be mean. She is my own, sweet, beautiful, 
loving mamma ! 

But oh ! oh ! I am so unhappy ! And I was so 
happy with Nono ! What shall I do when Nono 
goes ? — I know what : I shall die. Oh ! oh ! ! 
oh— ! ! 

July 26. — Nono has gone. I do nothing but cry. 
I never was so unhappy. The lump never was so 
big in my throat, and never stuck so. 

Nono cried too when we said good-by. I 
wonder if he is crying now. He said he would come 
back some day, and that I must not forget him ; 
that I am to be his little wife. 

Indeed, I shall never, never , never forget him ! — 
he can be sure of that. 

I have had a lover. They have taken him from 
me. I am very miserable. I think this is what they 


18 


FLORINE. 


call romantic. My Journal is now a story book — a 
real story book. 

September 20. — Yesterday I lost a little pearl ring 
that papa gave me. I let it fall down through a 
hole in the nursery floor. It nearly broke my heart. 
I choked and I choked. I was afraid to tell mamma; 
she had told me never to take it off. Then I 
thought I would tell God about it ; and I cried to 
Him with all my might. I told Him I was so 
unhappy and so choky ; oh, I just begged Him to let 
me find my little pearl ring. 

After that I waited awhile to see what God would 
do. 

Well, this is how it was : James, who was at 
work on the lawn, saw me cry, and asked me what 
was the matter. When I had told him, he came up 
to the nursery and made the hole a little bigger. 
Then he told me to put my hand down into it care- 
fully, and may be I should find the ring. Oh ! I 
just reached down and put my hand right on it. 
God put my hand on it. 

I never was so glad for anything as I was to see 
my dear little ring. You see, my daughter, that 
God does hear us when we talk to Him. I shall 
always love God, and I shall always tell Him every- 
thing. 


FLORINE. 


19 


It makes me feel so bad to be unhappy ; and it 
makes me feel so good to be happy. I hope many 
tilings will not happen to make me feel unhappy. I 
am afraid of feeling unhappy — f raider than of any- 
thing. 

December 3. — This is my birthday. I always have 
a “ time ” on that day. It is my da}'. 

I should be very happy if I could keep from think- 
ing of Nono. But I am wishing he was here. 

Do you think because I say nothing of Nono I 
have forgotten him ? I have not forgotten him. 
And I have not forgotten that he is not like other 
boys — that he is nicer than other boys. 

But this is my way when I feel hurt — heart - hurt ; 
I never say anything about it. I do not even write 
in my Journal about it. 

Nono has not written to me. That is why I am 
hurt. 


20 


FLORINE. 


1868 . 

January 20. — I am glad we are rich. I think it 
must be dreadful to be poor. I like to give things to 
poor children, and I like to make presents to my 
little companions. I feel as good when I give some- 
thing, as when papa or mamma give me nice things. 

I have everything I want. I only wish I was 
“grown up.” I want to be fifteen. That will be 
five years yet. A year is a long time. But the 
oddest thing is that papa and mamma are always 
saying, “ How short this year has been !” 

March 7. — I like Aubrey Willis. He is papa’s 
best friend. He is tall and grave, but he is very 
kind. He don’t talk to me just because he wants to 
please mamma and papa. There are plenty of 
people who do that — especially women. They notice 
me and praise me before mamma and papa ; but 
when they are alone with me they yawn, or they 
read, or they talk to one another as if I were not 
there. Aubrey is interested in me. I feel that ; and I 
like him best of any one that comes to our house. 


April 10. — I have a sweet voice. Everybody says 


FLORINE. 


21 


so, and it must be true. Besides mamma and papa, 
I feel best when Aubrey Willis says I have a sweet 
voice. Because Aubrey sings well, and he knows. 

June 24. — I think I like summer best, because we 
come to the country. I hear many grown up people 
say they hate the country. I do not at all under- 
stand why they hate it. I am so happy here. One 
sees so much more sky and so many trees. 

I wonder why the green of grass and trees is so 
pretty? I don’t much like the green that people 
make. God made this green ; that is why it is pretty. 

The birds sing all the time, but they sing more in 
the morning ; I have listened and listened, and I 
know. I wonder how they know to build their nests 
when they cannot think or speak ? How do they 
know to be afraid of the cat ? They make a great 
noise when she is near. God must talk to them, 
and tell them what to do. 

Toads are very funny looking. Just think of 
hopping and hopping, nothing but hopping, for 
years, over the ground ! 

August 13. — I don’t hate snakes — the little striped 
Ones and the spotted ones. I think I do not like pigs. 

I hear grown up people say they hate this world. 
I wonder why ? I think this is a very pretty world. 


22 


FLORINE. 


1869 . 


January 13. — I am glad I am eleven years old. It 
is now only four years till I shall be fifteen. 

I am having my voice cultivated by a woman who 
was once a great singer. She can’t sing now — that 
is why she teaches ; but she knows all about it. 
She is teaching me first how to strengthen and take 
care of my voice. 

I love to sing. I mean I love it for the way it 
makes me feel , and not because people praise my 
voice. 

But I love best of anything to make verses, and to 
write little stories for mamma and papa and Aubrey 
Willis to read. 

February 16. — I like to look at myself. I love 
myself — when I am not angry. 

I have a very quick temper. It is a great pity, for 
when I am angry I am ugly, and I say things that 
afterwards I am ashamed of. 

Mamma gets very pale when I am in one of my 
“ tantrums.” Then she cries. That brings me to 
my right mind ; and I am so sorry, that I don’t know 
what to say or what to do, loving enough, to make 


FLORINE. 


23 


her feel good again. I ask her over and over to for- 
give me, and I promise never to get so angry again. 
I mean it, at the time, and mamma kisses me and 
forgives me. 

But I do not keep my promise. When the mad 
comes it is like a hot wave that goes all at once over 
me, and I forget everything but how I feel. Then I 
am a little demon. 

March 2. — Here is another thing that seems curi- 
ous to me : grown up women go where they want to 
go, and do what they wish to do ; but they don’t 
seem any happier than children are, and they often 
cry as children cry. Why is this ? If I could do 
only what I wish to do I should never be unhappy. 

We shall see. I am going to remember this. 

Now, when I want to read, I must cipher ; when I 
wish to walk out, I must practice scales. 

I hate arithmetic. However, I always have my 
lessons. It doesn’t take long to learn them. No 
matter ; while I am learning them I want to write. 

When I am “ grown up ” I shall write a book. 

April 1 6. — To-day when I hugged mamma about 
the neck till I made her face red, papa said to her : 

“Louise, that child is a small Vesuvius ; she has 
the fire of both of us.” 


24 


FLORINE. 


I asked mamma what papa meant. She said it was 
hard to explain to children the exact meaning of 
every word ; but she thought papa meant that I am 
warm-hearted. 

I have looked in my dictionary. Vesuvius is a 
volcano ; a dreadful thing that bubbles up fire and 
smoke. I remember now to have read about it in 
my geography. 

I suppose I am like a volcano because I “ bubble 
up” when I get mad, and I bubble up in my heart 
when I want to hold mamma around the neck, or 
Pansy, or the kitten — when I want to hold them 
tight, tight . 

June 19. — I pray for everything. I pray to be 
wise because Solomon prayed for it. Solomon was 
very wise. I shall pray and pray to be as wise as 
he was. Then I want to live long, so I pray for 
that. I want to be pretty always, so I pray for that. 
I want to be good to mamma, and I pray for that. 
I don’t want anything about me to die ; so I pray to 
God every evening not to let the chickens die in the 
night, nor the birds and the flowers, nor Pansy and 
the kitten. In the morning I ask Him not to let 
them die in the day. 

Nothing dies at our house. 


FLORINE. 


25 


July 8. — Papa gives me lessons in athletic exer- 
cises. He wants me to be strong and active, he says, 
as well as dainty and sweet. Papa is proud of my 
quickness and lightness. 

October 20. — To-day, when I said to mamma that I 
hoped I should be as pretty as she is when I am 
“ grown up,” she said : 

“My pet will be more than pretty — she will be 
piquante .” 

I have looked the word up in my dictionary, and I 
am not quite pleased. 

October 21. — I asked Aubrey Willis what piquante 
meant. He said it was a French word, and means 
spicy. 

“ Oh,” I said, “ * spicy * means full of spices. Spices 
make things smell good and taste good. Mamma 
meant that I am full of good things and of sweet 

things r 

“ Yes,” he answered, laughing ; “but pepper is a 
spice, and it bites if one gets too much of it.” 

I told mamma this, and she laughed too. I don’t 
know if I ought to be pleased or mad. 

November 23. — Every one says I am like papa. He 
is handsome and gay. He is not like most papas I 
know — so solemn, so mannish, so “ grown up.” 


26 


FLORINE. 


I would rather talk to papa than to any girl I 
know. When things worry mamma and she tells papa, 
lie always says : 

“ Never mind, my darling, it must end somehow ; 
and maybe it will end all right.” 

And often it does end all right ; as often as it 
doesn’t. 

Papa is always polite to mamma, and he says a 
great many things that make her smile, and look 
prettier. 

I think our home is what people call a happy 
home. 

December 4. — Yesterday I was twelve years old. 
Mamma gave me a party. I am not happier for that 
party. 

This is what I cannot understand : when mamma 
does everything to make me happy ; when the 
nicest girls and boys are asked to see me ; when 
everything is just right, and I have nothing to do 
but have a nice time — that something almost always 
happens to make me feel bad. And then I don’t 
seem to think any more about the nice time I am 
having; and I don’t think how good every one is to 
me ; I only think of the hurt, and that spoils every- 
thing. Now, why is it that the one thing that hurts 
is stronger than the many things that make me glad ? 


FLORINE. 27 

I was angry last night. This is what made me 
angry — Howard Glynn said : 

“ Florine, you are the prettiest girl I know. If 
you let me kiss you I will ask papa to send Gordon 
down with my pony, and you can ride him to the 
Park. My pony is prettier than yours. Will you let 
me kiss you ?” 

I was so angry I wanted to strike him. And when 
he said : 

“You are not pretty now ; you are ugly when you 
look like that,” — I did strike him. Then I went to 
my room and cried, and mamma had to make 
excuses for me. 

I remember one kiss that did not make me angry 
— Nono’s kiss. That was a long time ago — ages 
ago. 

Why was I so angry when Howard wanted to kiss 
me, and so pleased when Nono kissed me ? I don’t 
know. But I hate Howard Glynn for wanting to kiss 
me, and I love Nono because he kissed me. 

Nono — Nono ! It always gives me a choke in my 
throat when I think of him. I shall never see him 
again. No matter ; no one else shall ever kiss me. 

Nono is getting bigger and older, of course, as I 
am getting bigger and older. Suppose he should 
kiss some other girl as he kissed me — with the kiss ? 
Oh ! — I am going to cry. Oh ! oh ! ! oh ! ! ! 


FLORINE. 


1870 . 

January 28— To-day I threw my book at my 
teacher. Then I asked his pardon. I asked it so 
sweetly that he forgave me at once. 

How I wish I could govern my temper ! I ask 
God to help me, but I forget all about that when I 
feel angry. 

It is very co??imon to get angry. I do not like 
common things. And I do not look well when I am 
angry. My fine little face looks then like one of the 
funny pictures that are called caricatures. I hate 
myself like that. 

I shall try harder than ever to govern my temper. 

March 24. — Grown up people are mistaken when 
they imagine small girls do not notice what they — 
the grown people — say and do. I pretend not to see 
and hear what is going on about me ; but I am see- 
ing and hearing all the time. 

I am very curious. I find out everything I can, 
and in any way that I can. I look into cabinets. I 
read letters that I find. (People shouldn’t leave 
their letters around, if they don’t want them to be 
read. I should burn them.) 


FLORINE. 


29 


I listen — when I can do nothing better than listen. 
My favorite place to sit is in a corner of a bay 
window in the library. I like to read there. I am 
so little that the drapery hides me. Often I hear 
conversations I ought not to hear. 

You see I do not know what they are going to say 
when they begin. When I do know, it is too late. I 
do not like to pain them by letting them know I have 
heard a part of it ; so I stay in my corner and hear 
the whole of it. But I keep it to myself. 

I suppose mamma wouldn’t believe I would do 
such things. She would say it was mean to do 
them. I suppose it is mean. I suppose, too, how- 
ever, that most grown up people are like this ; that 
is — they would do tilings, 00 the . sly , that no one 
would suspect them of doing. 

May 14. — Mamma says I have a sensitive nature, 
and that I feel too much. She said to papa she was 
sorry I was like this ; that it would always add 
unhappiness to my unhappiness. Papa said : 

“ Well, we must not forget that it will also add 
j happiness to her happiness.” 

When I asked mamma what all this meant, she 
; said I should know some day. 

There are many things that I am to know “some 
day.” 


30 


FLORINE. 


June 30. — I am going to try to be something else 
than a small girl. I am going to do everything that 
boys say I can’t do because I am a girl. I can walk 
as far as a boy. I can swim well. I can ride pretty 
well ; I shall ride altogether well next year. 

Some day — when I am “grown up ” — I shall learn 
to fence. 

This year I am going to try to entirely govern my 
temper. I must govern it. I shall be ashamed of 
this Journal if it should tell over the same old faults 
every year ; and if it should not read “ I am better 
th is year than I was last year,” or, “I have no longer 
such a fault.” 

I am going to try hardest, this year, not to say one 
word to mamma that will hurt her. Just think how 
I hurt for an hour, or a da)’’, until I have asked 
mamma to forgive me ; and how glad I am to see 
her smile on me, and to hear her say, “ My precious 
little daughter !” Oh ! 0I1 ! What should I do were 
mamma to die, and were I to have to think of some- 
thing cross I had said to her ! I should die of the 
choke. 

I shall pray to God, more than ever, to help me 
to govern my temper. 


August 8. — I have disobeyed mamma for the last 


FLORINE. 


31 


time. I am seriously hurt. I have had a toe cut off. 
Is not this dreadful — dreadful ? 

I was told not to go to a certain place where farm- 
ing machinery was kept. I never have disobeyed 
mamma but I suffered for it. 

What a frightful chance — that this horrible 
machine, with its one sharp tooth, should fall on one 
of my dear little toes ! However, that is better than 
if it had fallen on all my toes. 

My screams terrified the whole household ; but 
before they got to me the sharp pain that had made 
me scream had gone. I didn't feel anything; and I 
told mamma I wasn’t hurt. 

Mamma fainted — poor mamma ! Papa looked 
very pale. When mamma came to herself I thought 
only of my disobedience, and begged her to forgive 
me. She only cried, and kissed me and kissed me. 

When the doctors came I was again screaming 
with pain. Then they gave me ether ; but I didn’t 
know until days after, that my toe had been taken 
off. 

I have had to lie in bed a long time. This is the 
first I have been able to write in my Journal. 

I shall never, never again disobey mamma ! Just 
think — I shall have to be sorry for this all my life ! 

If it had been my littlest toe — I should not have 
minded that ; I have heard of women having that 


32 


FLORINE. 


toe taken off to make their feet smaller. My feet 
are small enough. I should be willing to have them 
bigger, if I could have all my toes. 

But this is not the worst. The doctor says that 
one of the tendons is shortened. That is very bad. 
If I escape limping I ought to be thankful. 

August 19. — The doctor says my foot may always 
be weak ; that I shall never be able to dance long at 
a time. 

This kills me. I dance as naturally as other chil- 
dren walk. I am light-footed and graceful, papa 
says, as the Andalusian girls. 

Papa was never so grieved at anything. He is 
proud of my little feet and well-turned ankles. I 
have had a wonderfully springy step. The doctor 
fears it may be less so. That is what hurts papa. 
And it hurts me, oh ! it hurts me ! 

September 28. — I am walking about. No one knows 
how badly I was hurt — but the doctor and Aubrey 
Willis. We are not going to tell how serious it was. 

•I do not walk lame ; and I shall soon walk as 
well as ever. But I shall never be able to dance so 
long or so well as [ did. This fact will always hurt 
me ; at least, so long as I am young enough to 
dance. But I shall keep it to myself. I shall never, 


FLORINE. 


33 


never, never let any one, not even mamma, know 
how it hurts me. But, my daughter, you will know 
it, and that I never forget to feel hurt about it. 

October 14. — What a pity anything has to die ! 
But it is not God’s fault. If Adam and Eve had not 
disobeyed God, nobody would die. There would be 
no death. Then the birds and the little calves and 
sheep would live always. 

Everybody blames Eve ; but I pity her. I know 
how Eve felt ; because, when mamma tells me not 
to do a certain thing, I want to do it. It seems to 
me I must do it. I should have eaten the apple. It 
is a pity God didn’t put it out of Eve’s reach, if she 
wasn’t to eat it. 

But Adam was a man and ought to have known 
better. What made him eat the apple because Eve 
told him to eat it ? I think he wanted to eat it. 

It wasn’t nice of him, either, to tell on his wife. 
Suppose mamma should make papa eat something 
he knew he ought not to eat, and it should make 
him sick — do you think he would tell the doctor 
that mamma made him eat it? Papa would be too 
well bred. 

How would it be if there was no death ? Would 
there be a heaven ? Would every being when he 
was done living here fly up to Heaven? I wonder 


34 


FLORINE. 


if many people would fly up ? Perhaps none would 
fly up ; perhaps no one would ever be done living 
here. 

I should never be done. I don’t want to die till I 
am very old. I am going to pray always to God 
never to let me be old ; that will be the same as 
praying to Him never to let me die. 


FLORINE. 


35 


1871 . 


January 13. — I am not like other girls of my age 
that I know. I think more than they do ; I am 
smarter : but I am not better than my companions. 
They think I am very kind because I will not kill a 
bee, or a gnat, or anything. I will even fish a fly 
out of the water. 

But when we are in the country I get very mad if 
a fly touches my food, and I scold the servants. I 
tell them they should kill all the flies. 

How is this ? I would save the life of one fly, and 
I would order the servants to kill many flies ! 

When the cat catches a bird, it makes me cold and 
sick all over ; and I want to beat her for killing the 
bird. But I don’t want to eat anything for my 
breakfast but a little bird — what they call “ small 
game.” 

The cat is only a cat and does not know what she 
is doing ; I am a little girl and do know what I am 
doing. How then is this ? 

I would take off my frock to give to a little 
beggargirl ; but I am not always gentle to my little 
companions. I like to govern them, and I let them 
serve me. When we play I am always the queen. I 


36 


FLORINE. 


arrange everything, and I order them to do the 
things that please me. They always obey me ; but 
I know they would like in their turn to govern. I 
never permit them to do so. If they offend me I am 
very cold to them. Then they cry and ask me to 
come back and rule them. I always come back ; 
but I never let them know I pity them. I make 
them believe it was very wrong to think of taking 
my place. 

I suppose all this shows that I have not a lovely 
disposition. 

However, they — my companions — don’t get along 
when they try to govern themselves. 

No matter ; I am cruel and I am selfish. 

I think I had better pray to God to help me to be 
what I ought to be. I always ask Him to make me 
what I want to be ; but maybe what I want to be is 
not always what I ought to be. 

February 20. — I heard a man say to-day that it 
was good to look at my mamma ; that she was 
“appetizing;” that these “low-throated and plump- 
shouldered ” women were always appetizing. 

Mamma don't like me to ask her the meaning of 
everything I hear ; she often flushes up when I ask 
her. So I do not always ask her ; I look in my 
dictionary. 


FLORINE. 


37 


I have just looked up “appetizing.” It means 
something to help the appetite. I don’t know what 
that has to do with my mamma ; and I don’t think 
that is what the man meant. But he must have 
meant something nice, because it was about mamma. 

Mamma is very pretty. She has yellow crinkly 
hair, and a skin like white roses. She has big blue 
eyes and a mouth like a flower — a red flower. She 
walks a little lazy. 

I look most like papa. He has black hair and 
dark blue eyes. His teeth are like pearls. He has 
a lovely little black mustache. 

I have mamma’s mouth. I have also a sweet smile 
like hers. The rest is like papa ; only, my skin is 
too fair to be like his, and too dark to be like 
mamma’s. 

I am not satisfied with mv eyes. I think they are 
too small. Once when I said so to mamma, she 
said : 

“No : I like them better as they are. Your face 
is small, your features are fine ; your eyes suit your 
face. Besides, they are not small, they are medium.’' 

Well, I don’t see that I can* change my eyes ; so 
I shall like them as they are. 

March 1 6. — I am old enough to know that papa is 
not good like mamma is good. Mamma prays a 


38 


FLORINE. 


great deal. I never saw papa pray. Sometimes 
when he says things that mamma doesn’t like, he 
kisses her a great many times and says lie didn’t 
mean to say them ; that he would rather hurt him- 
self than hurt her. 

I am sure this is true. But mamma never says 
things or does things to hurt papa — things she has 
to be sorry for. She is just sweet and good right 
along. And I hear her pray to be like this. 

I think God helps mamma to be always sweet 
because she asks Him ; while papa tries to be good 
without God. 

I love papa as well as mamma, but not in the 
same way. This is how it is : I am proud of papa ; 
he is so gay and handsome. I like to loo^ at him 
and think he is my papa. But I never forget to tell 
God that I love Him because He gave me my 
mamma. I tell papa only what will amuse him and 
what will please him ; it is only to mamma that I 
tell what hurts me and what makes me unhappy. I 
like papa to praise me ; I like mamma to pity me. 

April 17. — Mamma 'tried to explain to me to-day 
why girls could never be like boys : girls are feebler 
than boys. She told me, too, why it was wrong 
for Nono to kiss me. She told me like this : that 


FLORINE. 


39 


little girls are like white flowers — one cannot handle 
them without soiling their whiteness. 

I know what mamma means ; it is like this : when 
my rose-tree blooms I want no one to touch its 
white blossoms but myself. 

Well, I should want no one but Nono to kiss me. 
His kiss is like my touch of the rose ; it is his touch 
— that is, it is mine. 

I shall not tell mamma of this fancy. But I shall 
always think that Nono’s kiss for me was not 
wrong like any other boy’s kiss would have been. 

I don’t like girls. I don’t like them because they 
are feebler than boys. I was so angry when mamma 
was talking to me of this that she cried. She said 
God would punish me if I should keep on thinking 
and talking so wicked. But at the same time she 
pitied me and said I ought to be a boy. 

I don’t want anybody's pity — not even mamma’s — 
about this. I told her so. I would rather be a 
girl ; I am glad I am a girl. But I shall be differ- 
ent from girls. I shall do everything that a boy can 
do, to make me healthy and not “feeble.” I shall 
like that better than to be a boy. 

I am going to take care of my health. I am going 
to take care of all that is a part of myself. I shall 
begin to-day. ' 

I am going to sleep as long as I wish ; if I don’t 


40 


FLORINE. 


want to get up in the morning, I won’t. I am not 
going to eat or drink anything that does not agree 
with me, no matter how well I like it. I want to 
live a hundred years — two hundred, for that matter. 
I believe one can live that long if one takes care of 
one’s self. I am beginning young. 

I shall surely govern my temper ; to get angry 
spoils my prettiness and injures my health. I think 
I shall govern myself ; and that henceforth I shall 
make my own rules and my own plans. 

June 25. — In the Spring people say to mamma, “ I 
suppose you will soon be going to your country 
house?” And mamma says, “ Yes : I need rest.” 

I wonder what mamma means by rest. We have 
people here all the time. Mamma is always planning 
something to amuse our guests. We have big din- 
ners here just as we had in the city ; only we dine at 
four instead of six. We dress a great deal ; and 
when the days are hot it makes me hotter to be 
dressed — and cross too. 

I think it would be nicer if papa and mamma 
would sometimes dine alone. But, when no one is 
asked to dine with us, some one “ drops in ” — some 
one who call himself an “old friend ” of papa’s or 
mamma’s. 


FLORINE. 


41 


I think I should not have people about me all the 
time if I were “ grown up.” 

We have only elegant people at our house — people 
“ in society so that I see only this kind of people. 
But on Sundays we leave the park gate open to every 
one ; and I see working men come in witli their 
wives and babies and little children. They talk all 
the time, they laugh a great deal, and they look very 
happy. 

The elegant people at our house also talk a great 
deal, and they laugh a great deal; but often they don't 
look as happy as the poor people in the park. 

Then to be rich and “in society '* does not always 
make one happy ? But I think the poor people who 
are happy, would be still happier were they rich ; 
and the rich people who are unhappy, would be still 
more unhappy were they poor. I think it is one’s own 
will and one’s own disposition that makes one happy 
or unhappy. 

I am going to be happy no matter what comes. 

October 15. — I like to dream — I mean in the day- 
time. When I am alone I am always imagining 
myself some other self. 

I have a little theatre of my own — an imaginary 
theatre. In it I have played many characters. I am 
the audience and the actors. Nothing that I see in 


42 


FLORINE. 


real life, nothing that any one does is strange to me. 
I have played it all out on the stage of my own 
theatre. 

I think when I am “ grown up ” it will take a 
great deal to amuse me. 

November 18. — Now that I am almost fourteen, I 
am going to break myself of certain faults and 
habits before I shall be a year older. 

1. — When I speak to the servants, I show my 
authority too much by my manner. 

Mamma says this is not ladylike. 

2. — When I am wanted I go only when I am 
ready, no matter who is waiting for me. 

It is not polite to make others uncomfortable — 
mamma says. 

3. — I stain my fingers with ink every time I write. 

This is untidy. 

4. — I keep on drinking tea because I like it, when 
I know it is very bad for me. 

This is to have no will and no self denial. 

Florine, you must not have these faults and these 
habits one year from now ! 

December 21. — Papa wants to send me to Paris, to 
a convent, to finish my education. Mamma does 
not wish me to go. She wants me always with her ; 


FLORINE. 


43 


so I am to go on having tutors and instructors as I 
have had. 

I am glad of this. I am not always “ in bed and 
asleep ” when they think I am. When we have an 
“evening” at our house, or a special dinner, or a 
ball — any “ brilliant affair,” I see and hear much 
that no one suspects me to see and hear. 

I should not know anything about “society,” 
were I shut up in a convent. 


/ 



i 


44 


FLORINE. 


1872 . 

January 2. — It seems that I have never been 
governed. Papa never would take the trouble, and 
mamma’s will is not so strong as my own. Since I 
have reflected upon the subject I find this is true : 
that 1 have “ brought up " myself. This makes me 
feel solemn. I shall have only myself to call to 
account if I come to a bad end. I must always 
remember this. 

Papa says I have strong individuality. I am sure 
of this : that I never believe a thing is true because 
one says it is true. I think always why it is true ; 
and sometimes I convince myself that it is not true. 

I have a disdain for people — as if I were not made 
of the same material they are made of. This is 
absurd ; it is /^r/^«-years-old-like ; but I cannot 
overcome it. 

February 4. — I am going to have a law of order 
through my life. I am sure that want of order 
makes confusion ; confusion makes worry, and worry 
makes crossness. 

It annoys me to hear people always asking where 


FLORINE. 


45 


something is ; and always sure that ‘some one has 
taken it.' 

I know what I have, and I know where to find it. 
I have a place for everything, and I never fail to put 
everything in its place. 

If you knew, my daughter, how much trouble this 
saves me, you would follow my example, 

March 15. — I am going to have aims ; certain 
things that I am determined to accomplish. I am 
not going to wait till to-morrow to begin to bring 
them about ; I shall begin to-day — every day, to do 
what I can. 

I am going to get all the knowledge I can ; and I 
am not going to grieve over what I cannot get. 

I am going to enjoy every day as it comes. I shall 
try to get as much good as possible out of this one 
day, this one hour, this one minute. 

Do you think because I am only fourteen I can- 
not be wise ? I have prayed for wisdom every day 
since I was ten years old ; and I think I am wiser 
than most girls of my age. 

I shall keep on praying. My prayers are getting 
longer and longer every year. I think I shall pray 
to be made perfect in body and mind and heart. 
Why not ? That covers everything. Do you think 
there will be so much to do to me in Heaven, if I 


46 


FLORINE. 


try to be perfect here ? I don’t ; and I shall pray 
to be perfect, and I shall try to be perfect. 

I am already trying. I shall tell you how, my 
daughter : I talk aloud all that I think ; that I may 
be sure what I think will not sound foolish when 
spoken — or that I may be sure it will sound foolish. 

I practice before the mirror how to walk, how to 
carry my head and shoulders, and how to manage 
my arms and hands. 

I am educating my mouth. I smile well ; I can 
even laugh without making wrinkles. 

I study how to look what I feel, and to feel with- 
out looking it. 

But all this is for the body ! Never mind, my 
daughter ; I am caring also for the mind and the 
heart. 

April 8. — I have found out something about 
myself : it is that I am more curious to know things 
and people than to see them. I am always trying to 
know why people are happy, or why they are not 
happy. I think much of one’s misery is one’s own 
fault ; and much of one’s happiness, too, depends on 
one’s self. What I mean, is, that much of our worry, 
our fussing and our ill humor, comes from what we 
have done ourselves or not done. 

I suppose there are troubles and there is unhap- 


FLORINE. 


47 


piness that we cannot help. We must bear these ; 
but I have not yet had them to bear. But I shall 
never worry over a bad that hangs over my head. I 
shall wait till it falls right down ; then I will gather 
myself up as well as I can. Often something hap- 
pens to keep it from falling down. I know this 
already — from things that have happened to me. 

May 2. — I am not going to waste time on studies 
that I do not like, and in trying to acquire accom- 
plishments for which I have no taste and no talent. 

I shall keep on with drawing only for the purpose 
of sketching when I travel. It will help me to 
remember the places I have seen. 

I shall never be a fine pianist ; but I sing well, 
and I shall want to play my own accompaniments ; 
I shall practice only enough for that. 

French I know as well as English. German and 
Spanish well enough. I shall keep on reading books 
in the language of each of these, that I may not for- 
get what I know. 

I shall do no more Latin. Whatever one may say, 
I know very well it will be of little use to me. 

I have been reading English too carelessly. 
Hereafter I shall choose my books. I shall read 
fewer books, and more carefully read them. 


48 


FLORINE. 


It seems to me that I am now ready to start in 
life. 

June 14. — I have kept my word : I can do many 
things that boys do. I am strong and healthy ; and 
I am also as dainty as one can be. 

I am not going to think of doing things that boys 
do. I am not going to think of boys at all. I am 
going to do whatever I want to do, whatever I can 
do — without letting the fact that I am a girl be at 
all in the way. 

One thing I am sure of ; that girls do not need to 
be so weak and sickly as they say they are, and as 
they seem to be. They eat things to spoil their 
stomach, and then they have headache and feel dull. 
They take cold when they are careless, and that 
makes their back and limbs ache ; and then they say 
they are “ tired.” They do not sleep enough, and 
they feel cross. I know this is true ; fori have tried 
experiments on myself. 

I know how to keep well, and to be bright, and to 
enjoy everything. 

July 12 . — I was right ; we are oftenest the cause 
of our own suffering. I am in great pain. I have 
brought it on myself. I have been blundering and 
thoughtless, and I suffer for it. 


FLCRINE. 


49 


I have a mixture to clear my voice, which I use 
before taking a vocal lesson. I was careless enough 
to put it in a cabinet with other mixtures, intended 
for household use. In my haste this afternoon I 
took up a bottle of some horrid stuff, and gulped it 
down without looking at it. It burned its way down 
my throat. The skin came off my mouth and tongue 
and throat. I suffered horribly. Unfortunately a 
doctor could not be had till too late to counteract 
the effect of the acid. Papa and mamma were 
away ; and no one knew enough to give me an anti- 
dote. That makes me conclude that children should 
have a certain amount of medical instruction as well 
as any other instruction. Had I and others about 
me been less ignorant, my condition would not now 
be so bad. 

Jtdy 14. — I cannot speak. I cannot swallow even 
liquids without great pain. I can only write. Until 
to-day I have only been able to lie on my back and 
suffer. Mamma cries, and papa is sick over it. All 
the guests are sorry for me ; but this does not cure 
my throat. 

I have made a solemn vow never to take anything 
without stopping to look at it ; and never to do any- 
thing in a hurry. I don’t want to do anything to 
make any part of my body suffer ; I suffer so horri- 


50 


FLORINE. 


bly. If I keep on I shall ruin myself ; this self that 
wants to live one hundred or two hundred years ; 
this self that I love so much. 

July 24. — My throat has ulcerated — badly ulcer- 
ated. The doctor has had to cauterize it. He fears 
all this may injure my voice. The vocal cords are 
so delicate and so sensitive ; it takes so little some- 
times to change their sweetness and their clearness. 
Fear for my voice makes me forget my pain. Not to 
sing will be still worse than not to dance. 

August 25.— Oh ! 0I1 ! oh ! — I have ruined myself ! 
I cannot write for the tears that fall and spoil every 
word ; and I cannot see for the tears. 

The hurt that hurts me now is worse than the pain 
that was in my throat. I should be willing to have 
it all over, that horrible pain, many times over — if I 
could get rid of this pain. 

I am well now, but I cannot sing as I sang before 
1 drank that horrid acid. I shall always have a sweet 
voice, but not an uncommon one. Not a voice that 
will make people want to hear me sing. It will 
probably be often husky. 

And to think that I have done this ! To think 
what a little thing can change something of one for 
the whole of one’s life ! 


FLORINE. 


51 


God is not to blame for this ; I am to blame for it. 
How can we expect God to help us when we do not 
help ourselves ? I have asked God to make me wise. 
Well, I did not make use of the wisdom I have ; so I 
shall suffer for it — always. 

Do you think others about me know that I suffer? 
No, indeed ! I laugh, and talk, and look as happy as 
ever. That I brought it on myself helps me to bear 
it before others ; but it does not help me to bear it 
alone. I cry half the night. 

August 2 6. — Mamma pities me and cries ; that also 

helps me to appear to bear it. Mrs. A said to 

mamma : 

“It is fortunate Florine has lost her fine voice 
while she is too young to know what she has lost.” 

She is mistaken ; so is mamma ; so is every one. 
I know all that my voice would have been for me. I 
valued it as I value every gift, every good, every 
charm that I possess. I have still many things to 
love myself for ; but I shall grieve for my lost voice 
so long as I live. No one shall ever know that I 
grieve for it ; I prefer they should think me frivo- 
lous. 

I shall not write anything more about my hurt 
voice ; I shall try not to think any more about it. 


52 


FLORINE. 


September 17. — There are many guests at our house, 
and I have run away to write in my journal. No 
one will miss me. Everybody is making ready for 
to-night — when there is to be another ‘ brilliant 
affair ’ at our house. 

This is what I love : to sit in the woods alone, by 
the side of a brook, when all about me is so still, so 
still — I mean it is still from human voices and noises. 

A bird sings here, a bee hums there ; a frog croaks 
on the other side of the brook ; an insect spins out 
a buzzing sound. A butterfly flutters about my head. 
I see a brown, fuzzy worm crawl in the sunshine. An 
ant goes by me, up and down, in its crazy promenade. 
There is a tiny squirrel peeping out of a hole in an 
old tree. A leaf falls now and then. The branches 
wave softly, the wind whispers faintly. The water 
ripples and ripples, and murmurs and murmurs. I 
feel so full of happiness, so full of quiet, so far off 
from the gay people — so alone ! 

It seems odd to think that just up there, in my 
papa’s big house, people are laughing and talking, 
and dressing, and fussing, and noising. It is so dif- 
ferent from this little corner. 

This brook fascinates me. How strange it is to 
think that the water never stops flowing, never stops 
bubbling, never stops murmuring ! And this water, 
that is flowing by me now is not the same that was 


FLORINE. 


53 


flowing by me when I began to write about it. This 
ripple I see, this murmur I hear, it is not the same 
ripple, not the same murmur I saw and heard a 
moment ago. Time and water are always going and 
never rest. This moment is no longer this moment. 
I feel solemn when I think of this. 

I wonder if I shall like the things I do now when 
I am quite ‘ grown up 7 — We shall see. 

October 4 . — I am almost fifteen, and I am a 
Bohemienne . I found this last fact out this morning. 

Mrs. H and her daughter were sitting in a little 

arbor at the end of the lawn. I was quite near 
them ; but they didn’t see me. It was not my fault. 
Our guests shouldn’t talk outside of their own 
rooms, if they want to be sure that no one will hear 
what they talk. This is what Madam H. said to her 
daughter : 

“ My dear, you must be careful ; the Dwights are 
the cream of society. Mrs. Dwight, you know, is 
thoroughly well bred ; she does nothing that is not 
in ‘good form.’ She never makes a mistake. She 

knows of your engagement with G , and you may 

be sure she has her reason for not inviting him to be 
here at the same time with you. She has too much 
tact not to give you that pleasure, as her guest, with- 
out a motive. Should you insinuate your feelings 


54 


FLORINE. 


about this, in the slightest way, you would offend 
her ; and you cannot afford to offend the Dwights. 

“ By the way, that little Florine is not like her 
mother ; she is like her father. Mr. Dwight is per- 
fect in the drawing-room ; but his manner has a 
touch of the 4 free and easy,’ that in one less elegant 
might be commented upon. Florine has also a sus- 
picion of the Bohemian in her nature, and some- 
thing of what the French call * la malice .* She is 
very observing, very audacious, and very fine. She 
will make a brilliant woman, but she will never be so 
suave as her mother, nor so correct in matters of 
‘form.’ ” 

The daughter did not reply ; she was in a ‘ sulk.' 
After that they went in to breakfast. One would 
think they had gone out there just to say that much. 

Perhaps you think I was mad. I was, just a little, 
at first ; afterwards I was pleased. 

After all, it was true — and it was not so very bad. 
Then, too, I like to know what others call ‘faults ’ in 
me. I like to know, so that I may rid myself of 
them — when I am persuaded, in thinking about 
them, that they are faults. I have this much vanity. 

So then I have in me a ‘ suspicion of the Bohe- 
mian.’ I know one thing : I do not like so much 
ceremony as mamma does. Mamma is very cere- 
monious. She has certain rules of 4 good form ’ that 


FLORINE. 


55 


she never omits. She is always the same to every- 
one — always ‘ la grande da7ne.' I am not the same; I 
change my manner with every change of person. I 
make my inferiors comfortable and my equals often 
uncomfortable. Perhaps I shock my superiors — my 

would-be superiors. That is what Mrs. H calls 

la malice in me. 

However, I notice that sensible people, brainy 
people — people I like best — seem to like me, and 
are interested in me. I am sure they understand me 
best. 

I like clever people ; and the real clever people do 
not look as though they want you to see how clever 
they are. I honor great people ; but one does not 
see the greatness of these — one feels it. 

I do not like shams ; I hate affectation ; I detest 
snobbery. I have no patience with pretentious 
people, and no respect for toadyism. The title-hunt- 
ing weakness amuses me — when it does not enrage 
me. 

I am too young and too well bred to say this to 
any one but you, my daughter ; but I suppose I look 
it : this is why Mrs. H calls me ‘audacious/ 

October 9. — I told mamma what I heard the other 
day. She said I should have made myself seen at 


56 


FLORINE. 


once when Mrs. H and her daughter came to the 

arbor ; that that was the only correct thing to do. 

However, mamma lias not yet invited Mr. P ; 

so that with all her efforts to please, she will not 
please Miss H . 

December 6. — We are in town for the winter ; we 
only returned yesterday. I wanted my birthday fHe 
to be in the country. I like it best. 

There is something exhilarating in one's return to 
the city. The blood leaps in the veins instead of 
flows, at only the sight of the many people that 
come and go. I feel like floating, and I am vexed to 
see that I can only walk. I feel like doing some- 
thing uncommon, something startling. There is a 
sort of electric sympathy in the activity about me, 
that impels me to a desire to act. How could any 
one, who has once lived here, be contented to live 
in a small town, or in any town that is not like this ? 
I should prefer not to live at all. 

This is to be a very gay season, mamma says. 
Only two more years and I shall be ‘ out.’ Do you 
think I am not looking forward to this with many 
thoughts of it — in spite of my determination to live 
only for the present ? 

To tell the truth, I am curious to know all about 
it. I have my doubts about the privileges and the 


FLORINE. 


57 


happiness of a ‘grown up ’girl. I want to climb 
the heights ; I want to sound the deeps of all there 
is in Society’s world. I am ready to enjoy all there 
is in it ; but I shall not be duped. 

In the meantime I am not idle. I am writing and 
writing. When has there been a time that I have 
not been writing ? 


58 


FLORINE. 


1873 . 

- January 19. — Let me see,— how about the faults 
and the bad habits of a year ago ? It has not 
become a part of my nature always to speak gently 
and low-voiced to the servants ; but I have improved 
in this, and I shall try to become perfect in it. For 
the rest, I am the victor. 

However, I must not think highly of myself ; for 
while getting rid of certain faults I have taken up 
others. 

1. — I talk too much of myself. 

2. — I think too much of what I want to say, and I 
look too anxious to say it ; instead of interesting 
myself sincerely in what another, or others are say- 
ing, and having the politeness to wait patiently my 
turn — or to look as were I interested and patient. 

I shall give myself only a year to overcome these 
faults. 

February 7. — Papa gave a dinner last night to 
William Cullen Bryant. He often comes to see us — 
to see me. He says there are things about me that 
makes him think of his wife. He talks of her every 
time he talks to me. He must have loved his wife 


FLORINE. 


59 


very much, to love her memory so much. lie talks 
of her in a way that makes one think she is here, 
listening to all he says of her. I sometimes fancy I 
hear the rustle of her gown ; I think he fancies it, 
too. Often the tears come to his eyes when he talks 
of her. 

Mr. Bryant is a great man ; but his love for his 
wife is stronger than his love for his greatness : 
because, he told me he would rather die and see her, 
than to be young again — with the greatness he has 
now — and begin life, without her, over again. 

Love must be a great power to have an influence 
like that, over a man like Mr. Bryant ! 

February 9. — Charlotte Cushman is at our house. 
Last evening she read from Macbeth. 

I cannot think of her as a woman like other 
women. She is strong, she is magnetic. She 
impresses one off the stage as she impresses one on 
the stage. However, she is very sweet, very suave in 
her manner. But I never felt so much awe of any 
one. She knows how to make one feel she is not 
common. No matter how near she is to one, one 
never feels near to her. I like this. I shall always 
remember her as a sovereign. 

She is old. She suffers from a frightful malady ; 
no one would suspect this to look at her. She is 


60 


FLORINE. 


heroic. She is a wonderful woman, as well as a true 
artiste . I watch her every movement and listen to 
her slightest word. Mamma told me she said this 
of me : 

“ Your little daughter carries her head and shoul- 
ders wonderfully well. She has an uncommmon 
face — a very fine face. I hear she is very bright for 
her age. One must be careful of these bright chil- 
dren.” 

She said this as if I were really a child. I am so 
little, I suppose she thinks I am only about thirteen. 

February 23. — Some of the best things I have 
written I read to Mr. Bryant. I try to remember 
every word he says to me. This is what he said 
to-day : 

“ My child, do not write trash. I mean do not 
publish it — for every writer begins with writing 
trash. Do not be in a hurry to publish what you 
write, simply to see it published. Write, and keep 
on writing for years — for five years, ten years — 
rather than publish anything not worth publishing- 
Write, and study later what you have written. 
Reflect upon it — if it be worth reflecting upon ; 
improve upon it. 

4< Create your own style ; but be sure that it is a 
good style. Think for yourself. Form opinions 


FLORINE. 


61 


from your own reasoning. Try to have something 
to say ; and say it in the best way you can — and as 
you yourself think it. A fresh thought is often only 
an old one expressed in a new way and a better 
way. 

“Be sincere in what you say. No matter that 
others may say it is untrue ; you yourself must 
believe it is true. Sincerity often stands for intel- 
lectual worth. It is sometimes better than intel- 
lectual worth. 

“ Use simple words and as few of any words as 
you can. Studied simplicity is an art ; it is the 
music of poetry, it is the poetry of prose.” 

March 16. — Mamma is quite overpowering some- 
times without meaning to be. It is amusing to see 
people who are not equal to her in matters of ‘ form.’ 
They blunder ; then they try to look unembarrassed : 
but they keep thinking of themselves, and do not 
say anything they want to say. If mamma were not 
so sweet in her manner, and so well bred in appear- 
ing not to notice their trouble, I should pity them. 
And after all, these are very nice and very worthy 
people. 

If I were the people who seem to be afraid of 
mamma, I should be just what I am ; I should not 


62 


FLORINE. 


try to appear to be like mamma. No matter how I 
might be, I should be myself. 

April ii. — I no longer build * castles in the air.’ 
It doesn’t pay to build them ; I have learned that. 
It is like reading a story that one feels all the time 
is not true. There is no good in that. Or, if one 
can make one’s self believe it true ; if one does 
feel it to be true, it is too much suffering, too 
much enjoyment — too much emotion for nothing. 
Emotion exhausts one mentally and physically. I 
have need of much mental and physical vitality ; 
and I have resolved to preserve myself : so no more 
useless dreaming. 

I say ‘ useless,’ because when I write I am simply 
making use of my dreaming faculty. It is, after all, 
only dreaming intelligently. One puts down on 
paper what one sees and feels. The flying feathers 
of imagination caught, become a substance — a use. 

May 17. — I pray for everything ; and I never for- 
get to pray. This is not because I am pious ; for I 
do not always pray with fervor, and not always with 
a sense of my need. Perhaps it is from habit that 
I pray, or from a sense of duty ; perhaps from a 
vague sense of safety through my praying — perhaps 
it is only because my mother prays. 


FLORINE. 


63 


Mamma has told me a great many times never to 
forget my prayers ; that no matter what I do, or 
how I feel, I must never cease praying. I think it 
is as much my thoughts of my mother as my think- 
ing of God, that keeps me from forgetting to pray. • 

After I have said my prayers in the morning I 
think no more of them ; but I feel safe for the day. 
Remembering them again at night, I am rewarded 
with the same sense of security ; and I fall quietly 
to sleep. 

June io. — I know now what is the matter witli me 
— what has always been the matter with me ! It is 
that I am ambitious — that I was born to be ambi- 
tious. I know now whv I am alwavs restless, and 
why I am not pleased with what seems to please 
others ! It is that I wish to write something that 
everybody will talk about — that I wish to be 
famous. 

There is something in the thoughts and tempera- 
ment of a writer that separates her from others, 
whether she wishes it or not. There is something 
always of the solitary in her life. I feel that I am 
different from those with whom I associate. I have 
always, in a vague way, felt this. I am sure of it 
now ; this is why : 

Mr. Bryant was here the whole of the afternoon. 


64 


FLORINE. 


He came to see me . He read one of my poems, — a 
little thing that I did not know was worth anything ; 
then he laid his hand on my head : 

“ My child, you have the real flame — the divine 
flame. I prophesy that you will one day be famous/' 

When he said this I trembled all over, and then I 
sobbed outright. 

“Ah,” he said, “ this will not do ! You must not 
think so much of what I have said. I may be mis- 
taken. Do not believe more in yourself because I 
believe in you. You must be satisfied with yourself, 
before you can think well of yourself. I think you 
are a born critic. I think you will know when to 
find fault with yourself, and when to be just to 
yourself. You have also much originality, — I must 
say this good yet of you. But you must study, you 
must work — and you must have patience.” 

But I do believe more in myself because he believes 
in me. At least, knowing that he believes in me 
makes me to know how fully I believe in myself. 

Do you think I was ever so happy ? Do you think 
I shall ever forget what that dear great man said to 
me <?/ me ? Do you think I shall not forever and 
ever feel the touch of his hand upon my head ? 

I want to do something extraordinary ! I want 
to sweep with great wide wings through the whole 


FLORINE. 


(55 


universe ! I feel the blood tingle in my veins ! My 
heart beats with thumps All this will lead to some- 
thing. This is an epoch in my life— this is the begin- 
ning of something. 

July 30. — I have sent a poem to Harper s with a 
note of Mr. Bryant’s. I am in a fever of expectancy. 
I do not tell any one that I have sent the poem. 

August 9. — I can do nothing well. I keep thinking 
of my poem. This suspense is torture. I dreamed 
that I saw it — my poem — in the magazine, set about 
with heavy black lines ; and that Harper s had done 
this to call attention to it — to the absurdity of it. 

I awoke from this dream to find myself sitting 
upright in bed, and fumbling at the lace of my night- 
gown like an idiot. 

August 14. — I dreamed last night that a little 
demon held up my poem, and with one finger point- 
ing at it was laughing derisively. To think of this 
dream makes the cold dew start from my forehead ; 
and I cannot keep from thinking of it. 

It will break my heart if my poem is not accepted ! 
Ah ! now I pray with fervor. I pray with all my 
might to God to put it into the hearts of Harper s to 
accept my poem ! 


66 


FLORINE. 


August 23. — Witli all my watching of the letter-car- 
riers, I missed the letter from Harper's. I was late 
at breakfast, and papa handed me the big envelope 
with a smile. He did not say a word ; but he knew 
well enough if it were good news he should know it. 

I lingered longer than usual in the dining-room, 
talking lightly of little things. I seemed to have 
forgotten about the huge envelope that I had thrown 
aside. But the truth was that I had not the courage 
to open it. I felt sure it contained my manuscript, 
and I wanted to cry with all my might. 

When at last I went to my room, I did nothing else 
but cry. 

My poem is returned with a graceful note. They 
say it is 1 too long.’ 

Of course they must say something — out of cour- 
tesy to Mr. Bryant’s note ; and then Harper's know 
papa very well, and they say something nice for his 
sake. 

I wonder how many * notes ’ Mr. Bryant has written 
for young authors ? So many, that I am sure the 
editors understand when they get them that they 
simply mean nothing. However, I did not ask for 
my note ; Mr. Bryant offered it to me. 

As for papa, he shall never know anything about 
the poem. 

I feel better — now that I have cried. My heart is 


FLORINE. 


67 


not broken. I am not even discouraged. I am going 
to write another poem — a shorter one, for some 
other magazine. 

September 28. — Mr. Bryant asked me to-day why I 
always wore white. 

I told him it was because I liked it, and because 
it was becoming to me. 

“Any girl,” he said, smiling, “would probably 
have those same reasons for wearing it ; I thought 
you might have another. But I like it too ; and it 
does suit you best. You look like a flower.” 

“The lily, I suppose ?” 

“Not at all. A white rose.” 

“Why do I look like a white rose, if you please, 
rather than a lily — will you tell me ?” 

“No,” he replied gravely, “you will know your- 
self some day.” 

“ It seems there are yet many things I may not 
know. I have always been told this: 4 You will 
know some day.’ Mr. Bryant, please tell me now 
why I am like a white rose, and not like a lily.” 

“ How is this ? You are persistent ! You would 
make me do anything you wish ! Well, this is why,” 
he added, in a solemn tone : 

“A lily is too frail, too delicate — too white. One 
does not wish to touch it ; one is satisfied to admire 


68 


FLORINE. 


it. A white rose is something to want to love — to 
caress. It seems to have warmth, soul — life." 

“Oh !” I said, not mistress of his full mean- 

ing, and not caring to have him know that I was not. 

For some moments he looked at me in the keen, 
penetrating way that he has ; then he said slowly : 

“ You will have your worst enemy in yourself. 
You are beautiful ; but you have something that is 
of more worth than beauty : you have the gift of 
personal magnetism. It is a gift that makes of the 
possessor an enchantress. Wherever it moves, this 
magnet, it has its attractive power. 

“ But remember this, my child, in its influence it 
is as often a misfortune to its possessor as a good. 
For feeling , mark you, is common to the coarsest 
individual as well as to the finest. And these coarse 
beings are influenced by it in their way, as much as 
the fine beings are influenced by it in their way. It 
is a blessing when it brings its possessor the esteem 
and the affection of pure-minded men and women ; 
it is a curse when it makes her the object of a 
sentiment that is in itself bad.” 

I was quiet for some time, after this ; when he 
asked me why, I told him I was writing down in my 
mind every word he had said, so that I might never 
forget it. 


FLORINE. 


69 


“ I have it now,” I said presently, and chatted 
gayly to him. 

October 31. — I have sent another poem, to another 
magazine. This is very pathetic — this poem. lamas 
nervous and excited about it as I was about the other. 
I pray earnestly that it may be accepted. I think 
it is good ; others who have read it think so too. 
This suspense, this hoping, this fearing — this is not 
the pleasant part of an author’s life. There is no 
illusion about this that I feel ; it is simply torment. 

December 3. — I am sixteen. Sixteen years ago I 
was a very little bit of what I am now ; sixteen 
years more I shall be thirty-two. It makes one 
seem old to keep a Journal. And how often I used 
to wish I was ‘grown up !’ 

It seems to me I can see right through the years 
that have gone. That is the good of keeping a 
Journal. What would have become of the poor 
little years — had I not put them down ? They would 
have gone, and I should have forgotten them as I 
forget my dreams. Now I have them, every one, 
and I shall keep them while I live. 

With the beginning of every new year I shall go 
over the past year so that I may know what faults, 
and bad habits I have gotten rid of. It is curious, 


70 


FLORINE. 


that with every year a new fault springs up to 
get rid of. I wonder if it will always be like this ? 
I shall never then be perfect ! But I shall get as 
near to it as I can. 


FLORINE. 


71 


1874 . 


January 5. — My poem is returned with * thanks.* 
That ‘ thanks * is a polite irony I cannot see the use 
of. It enrages me. 

The sight of the suspicious looking envelope made 
my heart sink down, down — as far as it could sink. 
But this time no one saw even the envelope ; the post- 
man handed it to me. So I do not feel so badly as 
I thought I should. I suppose one gets used to it. 
I suppose I shall keep on writing, and keep on send- 
ing what I write. I suppose it becomes a habit to 
send. It may even become a habit to expect to see 
one’s manuscript come back, accompanied with that 
delicious t returned with thanks.* 

You see how one can come to this — to make sport 
of one’s self ! My daughter, I do not feel so gay as 
I write. 

However, at present I am combative. I am deter- 
mined to write something that will not be sent back. 
And one day — one day, Miss Florine, these same 
editors will ask you to write for them. We shall see 
then how they will feel, whenjw decline the honor 
with 1 thanks.’ 


72 


FLORINE. 


February 2. — I am working like a woman now. I 
know enough of myself to know that I have a mighty 
will ; and that I have an extraordinary amount of 
stick-at it-ness. (Th.at is not an elegant word ; I sup- 
pose it is not at all a word — but it expresses best 
what I mean.) 

The future — what I may be, or may not be — does 
not trouble me ; I do not think of it at all, except as 
a result of what I am trying to do now. Besides, 
Mr. Bryant is not mistaken : I have the ‘flame.’ I 
shall work ; I shall be patient — I will succeed. 

April 19. — Mamma finds fault with me. She says 
I make myself disagreeable to certain people. It is 
because I cannot hide my disdain for their smallness. 
They think of small things, they talk of small things, 
they agitate themselves and others on account of 
small things. I have no patience with these people, 
and no charity for them. Mamma has both. 

I have resolved not to waste my time with people 
who do not please me nor interest me. No matter 
how rich or how much ‘ in society ’ they are — I shall 
snub them. I shall only cultivate people who are 
intelligent, who have common sense, who do not 
gossip about others, and who make me happy to be 
with them. I shall choose my friends. 


FLORINE. 


73 


It seems to me, Florine, this is what we should 
call selfish. 

Well, have we not a right to be selfish in a way 
that will help us to be better and happier ? If each 
individual would think more of himself, be more 
careful of himself, give more time to himself — all 
people would be more agreeable and more com- 
panionable. 

But mamma is right in her intention. One should 
be kind to every one. If one is really superior, one 
can afford to be always this — almost always. It 
causes people to love us — at least to bear no ill will 
towards us. 

So I will teach myself to be complaisant towards 
every one. I shall snub only in extreme cases. I 
will get rid of people I do not want to know, by 
tact. I will let them down softly from their near- 
ness to me. They will be surprised to find them- 
selves not near me ; but seeing me smile from afar 
upon them, they will not suspect me of pushing 
them off. 

May 4. — At last, the editors of a popular magazine 
have published a short story of mine ! They do not 
pay me. They apologize for not doing so by saying 


74 


FLORINE. 


they can have more material than they need, with- 
out paying for it. 

What do I care for money ? I put a price on the 
manuscript because some one told me they would 
know I was a beginner if I did not. But, all the 
same, they know I am green ; and that I am in a 
state of beatitude simply because it is published. 

That is the truth : I never was so satisfied with 
myself. To see something in a magazine that I have 
written ; to know that some one all over the land 
will read it — this is true happiness ! This is to feel 
that one is something more than nothing ! 

Success sends up the barometer of ambition one 
hundred degrees ! It is a baptism of courage ! I 
could work on, now, without eating or sleeping ! 

May 8. — Papa says my story is very pretty, and 
very original. But he says, too : 

“ Don’t, for Heaven’s sake, be a regular ‘ blue- 
stocking,’ Florine !” 

That is like papa. But he need not fear that I 
shall look as though I write. I am two distinct 
individuals. My mind belongs to a grave and a wise 
being ; a being that reasons, that reflects. My body 
is another self — an exquisite, fluttering self. I am a 
butterfly with a soul. It is the butterfly only that 
most people see. 


FLORINE. 


75 


June n. — Mamma is unhappy ; that keeps me from 
being happy. I have never seen her, until now, any- 
thing but happy. She cries often — when she thinks 
I am not knowing it. 

Nothing ever hurt me so much as this. I would 
much rather be unhappy myself than have mamma 
unhappy. When I ask her what hurts her, she 
trembles and turns pale ; but she does not tell me. 
I see that I pain her more by asking her about it ; 
so I say nothing, and I appear not to notice it. But 
I shall find out for myself. I shall watch, I shall 
listen — I shall know the truth. 

July 14. — “ Florine, stop your hysterical diving 
about the room, and write in your Journal !" 

This is what I said to myself, a moment ago. 
Because — I have something worth writing down ; 
something that encourages me to believe the good 
opinion I have of myself is not all the result of my 
self love : 

Some time ago I sent a little poem to the Even- 
ing Post . (I have sent so many poems, to so 
many papers, that I no longer keep an account of 
them. I have too much vanity. It is like dropping 
them into an abyss — and I see them no more.) This 
poem was published ; but as it was anonymous, I 
ventured to ask Mr. Bryant if he had seen it. 


70 


FLORINE. 


Surprise and delight looked from his eyes, and a 
faint glow came over his face. 

“ And it was you, child, really you, that wrote that 
charming little thing ! Well, I am going to tell you 
something that will please you.” 

Then he took from his pocket a small note-book, 
and from the book a folded paper. 

“There is your poem ! I read it, and I like it. I 
thought it so fresh, so rhythmical — so full of poetry 
that I wanted to keep it. And to think it was you 
that wrote it — that it was something of you that I 
wished to keep !” 

“ It is my poem, Mr. Bryant — my very own ! And 
to think thatyou read it, that you liked it well enough 
to put it carefully away — to keep ! To think that 
you think it is good ! Oh ! oh ! oh ! I am so glad ! 
I am so happy !” 

Between the exclamation points I was hugging the 
good man’s hands, and drinking the salt of my down- 
dropping tears. 

August 17. — I have learned already, that if one 
really wants to find out something, one need only to 
watch and to wait for it. I have found out why 
mamma is unhappy. 

I have heard that every family has its skeleton. I 
never suspected that we had one. Nobody suspects 


FLORINE. 77 

that we have one. It is only lately that mamma has 
found it out. 

Papa is a gambler / That is our skeleton. That is 
why mamma cries. 

Oh, what a pity ! What a pity ! And to think 
that I have often heard women say they envied 
mamma her happiness ! 

And now mamma is not to be envied — she is not 
happy. She can never again be happy — not so long 
as papa gambles : this is what I heard her say to 
papa. And papa cried with her, and said he would 
rather die than give her pain ; that he adored her. 
But when she begged him not to gamble any more, 
he sobbed out : 

“ Anything but that, my darling — anything but 
that ! I cannot give it up ! — for your sake and 
Florine’s, I cannot give it up !” 

So you see there are bad things that one cannot 
give up, even for the sake of one’s love and the 
beings that one loves ! Gambling must be a terri- 
ble power — a power that one cannot resist. Were it 
not, papa would give it up — seeing it makes mamma 
unhappy. He would die, he said, rather than give 
her pain. He loves mamma then more than his life ; 
but he loves gambling more than he loves mamma — 
seeing he will not give it up. 


78 


FLORINE. 


I do not believe that ! He did not say to mamma 
he would not give it up ; he said he could not ; that 
for her sake and mine, he could not give it up. 

Why is it that he cannot give it up ? — I shall find 
out why. 

So things are happening! This then is life — 
grown up life ! And I cannot be happy, although I 
have everything apparently to make me happy ! And 
this is not my fault. 

So then, we cannot be sure — even if we do nothing 
ourselves to bring unhappiness upon us — we cannot 
be sure to be always happy, continually happy ! 
We can only regulate our own conduct ; and I sup- 
pose we shall have to suffer for the irregularity of 
others’ conduct. 

Well, no matter ; I shall try to be happy. That 
is, I shall try to do nothing to make myself unhappy. 

August 21. — I asked mamma all about it. I was 
hoping there was some mistake. I could not think 
my papa was a real gambler. 

I was sorry at first that I told mamma I knew it ; 
she was so shocked, so hurt — and her crying nearly 
broke my heart. 

But it was the best -way — the only way. Mamma 
will bear it better now, knowing we can talk about it 
together. I am old enough to know all that she 


FLORINE. 


79 


knows, and strong enough to bear all that she bears. 
1 am more philosophical than she is. I think I am 
very clear-headed. I do not grieve long over any- 
thing that cannot be helped : I simply make the best 
of it. I think I am a help to mamma, a strength to 
her. 

But there is no mistake about this : that my hand- 
some, elegant papa is a gambler. The set of gentle- 
men he goes with is composed of the best families 
in town. They are very secret. The outside world 
does not suspect them. 

The world then, our world, will never know. 
This makes it easier to bear. 

But it is a painful discovery. I cannot be so 
proud of my papa. He has a fault — a passion that 
is stronger than his will. 

This is a passion in which there is no heart, and 
yet it is stronger than papa — stronger than his love 
for his wife and child. 

To go night after night of year after year to 
gamble, to make money by stealth — and to lose it ! 
This is astonishing. 

I suppose any bad habit is astonishing to one who 
has not that habit ; and that any violent passion is 
astonishing to one who has never felt that passion. 


August 25.— The reason why papa thinks he can 


80 


FLORINE. 


not give it up — for my sake and mamma’s — is that 
lie makes his money that way. He who makes 
money by gambling, makes it so easily that he has 
not the patience to make it in a slower way. 

But it is an uncertain way to live. One loses as 
often as one wins. Some are always losing. Papa 
is simply lucky ; that is why we are rich. However, 
mamma is rich in her own right. 

But suppose mamma should lose her money? 
People are always losing money — people who do not 
expect to lose it. Suppose papa should not be 
‘lucky ?’ Suppose he should lose heavily, and keep 
on losing — what would happen then ? We should 
be poor instead of rich. 

I suppose I do not realize all this — that might be. 
There is nothing but luxury, nothing but signs of 
wealth about us. But mamma realizes it. Mamma 
fears the worst. 

I think I do not feel about gambling as mamma 
does — that it is a sin. It is a business, as well as 
any other business. Papa makes money that wav ; 
other men make it in some other way. The money 
that papa makes helps us to live comfortably and 
happily. 

Besides, papa is always giving money to the poor. 
He employs many working men and women ; and 
he pays them well. All who work for papa love him. 


FLORINE. 


81 


If all men were as generous as my papa, there would 
be no complaining, and no 4 strikes.’ 

Stop, Florine ! 

Now that I think of it, this reasoning does not 
satisfy my conscience. It is my heart that pleads 
for my darling papa, and not my reason that justi- 
fies his fault. 

Because, when papa wins money some one else is 
losing it. Perhaps some one’s wife and children 
suffer for the want of the money that is making us 
happy. It is not the taking and the giving back of 
an equivalent. One must be made poorer to enrich 
another. One must be made miserable to make 
another comfortable. This is frightful ! I will not 
think of it ! 

But mamma, I am sure, is all the time thinking of 
it. Poor mamma, I shall, love her so much, that 
perhaps she may not always think of it. 

September 18. — I think that I am admirable in some 
things : in my compassion for the weaknesses of 
others — great weaknesses, like papa’s ; in my con- 
tempt for those who speak ill of others ; in my aver- 
sion for small talk ; in my indifference to gratitude 
from those I have benefited. I am admirable in my 
fearlessness of what others may think when I know 


82 


FLORINE. 


1 am doing right. And — and — I am envious of only 
one being. 

Stop, Florine ! How is it when you have been 
writing all the morning, and come down stairs from 
a banquet witli the muse, to find a special breakfast 
you had ordered not savory enough to suit your 
dainty palate, or not done to the ‘ brown ' of your 
taste ? You are furious. You leave the table, and 
the breakfast-room. You will not wait for any other 
morsel than the morsel you had ordered ; and you 
are unhappy till the hour comes to dine. 

That is true ; my good humor is dependent upon 
the cook. Well, a cook ought to be perfect. I have 
no patience with carelessness, or with inefficiency, or 
with stupidity. If one presumes to know a thing, 
one must always know it, to be sure of pleasing me. 
I want no mistakes and no failures in what is doing 
for me. Above all things, I want no expcrivienting 
on the things that are doing for me. 

October n. — Papa seems to think he cannot do 
enough for mamma. He is loving her so much, that 
she cannot always look sad. 

Poor papa ! I find myself pitying him so much, 
that I am loving him more since I know his weak- 
ness than before I knew it. 

It must be a terrible punishment of one’s self, 


FLORINE. 


83 


when one wants to leave off a bad habit and cannot. 
It seems, however, that gambling is diabolical in its 
fascination ; and that one cannot always want to 
want to give it up. 

Nove??iber 6. — I do not now often lose control of 
my temper. Well, it is time that I learn to govern 
myself. In another month I shall be seventeen. 

People say I have a sweet disposition. I know 
that I have not. Often I smile, and I talk quietly, 
when I want to hurt some one, and when I am 
4 boiling up ' — under cover. 

Mamma thinks that I am a Christian ; that I am 
changed 4 by grace.' But I fear I am not what she 
means by a Christian. 

The truth is that I do pray regularly to God to 
make me good. But I am always doing something 
unexpectedly that I have not prayed to be kept from 
doing — something I never suspected myself of want- 
ing to do. 

Then I am almost sure I do not help my prayers 
to come true so much from a sincere desire to be 
good, as to please myself and others. I suspect that 
the largest cause of my sweetness is my self love. I 
desire to live long, and to preserve my health and 
good looks. Anger makes me frown ; it ends in 
making me cry. One makes wrinkles, the other 


84 


FLORINE. 


dims the eye ; these both — my anger and my sorrow 
for it — injure my health. 

November 19. — There is another of my stories that 
did not go down to the bottom of the abyss. No. 
it is published in a very nice magazine. 

I am very happy about it. How good it is to 
live ! I feel a sudden sweetness towards everybody, 
I want to put my hand on the children’s heads as I 
pass through the little parks. I smile kindly at 
the young girl who weighs out my bonbons. The 
clerks, I am sure, think I am very nice ; and that I 
am more interested in them than about the goods I 
wish to purchase. I give every beggar something 
and I buy useless things from all the street venders. 

You see what success does for me ! It makes me 
democratic. 

It is my mind that makes me happy. * My mind 
a kingdom is.’ What is it to be rich ? The com- 
monest individual, the coarsest of beings may get 
money — millions of money. But an uncommon 
mind is not to get j one must have it — one must be 
born having it. 

And what is love ? I do not know, so I cannot 
speak lightly of it. But as I am happy without it — 
happy with an uncommon mind ; I think I should 
not be happy with it — had I only a common mind. 


FLORINE. 


85 


November 27. — I do think myself a little better 
than other people — I mean my bodily self. No one 
could be more careful of one’s person than I am of 
mine — bathing, manipulating, brushing, anointing, 
perfuming. And my skin is like satin. I am often 
afraid people near me are not as clean as they ought 
to be. 

I know a young man who is handsome, elegant, 
distinguished ; but he only brushes his teeth once a 
day. I hate him since I know that. I should hate 
the best friend I have, were I to know that he or she 
was not so dainty as I should like my friends to be. 

I do not like to think that my body shall one day 
be laid in the ground ; that it will be food for the 
worms. This is the only thing that makes me very 
unhappy. 

I must be cremated ; there is no other way. 

December 10. — Last night was my debut. I am no 
longer Miss Florine — I am Miss Dwight. Hence- 
forth I shall be a part of the life I have been look- 
ing at and studying from a distance. I wonder if I 
shall become as others that I see, or whether I shall 
keep on being myself ? We shall see. 

It is curious that times and events come round — 
the day, the hour for which we have long waited, 
the event we have wished for to come ! 


86 


FLORINE. 


When I began this Journal I was constantly long- 
ing for the time to be ‘grown up * — the time to be 
‘ in society.’ I have now no longer that time to look 
forward to. Well, I am glad it is over ; I shall 
have something else to think about. 

My debut was like the dbbut of other girls who have 
society mammas — it was a brilliant affair. The 
morning papers say it was the ‘ event of the season.’ 
They always say that. 

We have had so many ‘ brilliant affairs * at our 
house, that the only novelty of this was that it was 
my affair. 

Of course I received more attention and more com- 
pliments than any one else ; as a matter of ‘ form ’ I 
should have received them, even had I not deserved 
them. 

I think it will not be the glamour, the excitement, 
the eclat of this life — all that I saw in my child’s 
expectation of it, that I shall enjoy. It will be the 
study of human nature and of human passions ; of 
emotions enacted or dissimulated. The worldliness 
will interest me and amuse me ; it will never bewilder 
me, never subjugate me. 

No, my daughter, your mother is too sensible for 
that. 

The real of life will always be for me a huge 


FLORINE. 


87 


comedy, that will sometimes annoy me, sometimes 
divert me. 

And nowhere is life more real than in a fashionable 
drawing-room. It is real because it is insincere — 
and because each individual knows the other to be 
insincere. 

The ideal alone can satisfy me. The ideal is within 
us. No being has the courage to appear in a draw- 
ing-room as his or her inner self is. Every society 
body is like every other society body. The only 
difference is in the degree and the manner of their 
insincerity ; the intelligence or the stupidity of it. 


88 


FLORINE. 


1875 . 

January 6. — I want everything in order. There is 
no ‘ blue stocking ’ about that. One can learn to be 
orderly if one is not naturally so. Order prevents 
confusion and fussing ; I hate both of these. I say 
this often to you, my daughter, because I wish you 
to remember it ; I wish you to be orderly. 

January 9. — I have a great deal of judgment. The 
housekeeper knows this, and the servants know it. 
Mamma permits me to govern them. 

I want servants to be obedient. I am not unrea- 
sonable. I am exacting because I know I am right. 
I know this, because : when I am obeyed all goes 
well ; every one is contented and good-humored. 
When I am disobeyed, the chain of order is broken 
and the whole household is upheaving and irritable. 

I think some people are born to govern and others 
to be governed. The larger part need to be governed. 
The few born to govern have stronger individuality 
than their fellows ; they are more fearless and more 
reasonable. They have more judgment — which is 
simply more natural intelligence. 


FLORINE. 


89 


January n. — I am fairly launched nowon the high 
sea of worldliness, and I sail well. 

Am I disappointed in what I see and in what I 
enjoy ? No. I observed too closely while I was 
‘ growing up,’ the life that has always been about 
me, to believe seriously in its illusions. 

I still fancy I shall not be duped. I think I shall 
enjoy everything, but I shall not be satisfied with any- 
thing. I suspect that I have not the ‘ freshness ' that 
newspaper reporters attribute to me. But, in 
revenge, I think I have another kind of freshness 
that neither time nor the world can take from me. 

January 13. — I like Jefferson. He is not a great 
actor, but he is a natural actor. There is about his 
playing the charm of illusion. This charm is for me 
the whole enjoyment of a play. Jefferson is Rip Van 
Winkle. We are among the mountains of the Cat- 
skill. This illusion never effaces itself until Jefferson 
appears as himselfi — bowing and smiling to the 
audience. 

This always makes me furious. Why is this 
execrable manner an etiquette of the stage ? Why 
do actors come to the front, nearer to us, as the men 
and women we had forgotten them to be, instead of 
appearing where they are, and as the character they 
have just seemed to us to be? Let us see them as 


90 


FLORINE. 


we saw them last, before the curtain fell — suffering 
or joyous, dancing or dead — or let us not at all see 
them. Imagine one dropping a tear for the man 
who had just died — when the curtain rises too soon, 
and we see the dead man crawling to his feet ; and 
presently he comes smiling and bowing convention- 
ally to the front. All this is odious ! It is brutally 
disillusionizing ! 

January 21. — We go a great deal to the theatre 
and to the opera. I am much looked at and much 
talked about. My name is often in the papers. 

To see me, to talk to me, you would think this 
attention is indifferent to me. But do not believe I 
care nothing for it. Do not believe there is any one 
that cares nothing for it. No matter if there are 
those who pretend not to read what is said about 
them, who look amused or bored when a friend hands 
a marked paragraph to them ; these are all tricks of 
vain men and women who are ashamed to appear 
vain. 

But the truth is, we — the society people — are 
pleased to see our names in the papers ; we are 
pleased to be looked at and to be talked about. 

I am like this — and I pretend not to be. I have 
the gift of seeming to be supremely indifferent. 
Others have also this gift. 


FLORINE. 


91 


I shall even confess that the 1 simplicity * of my 
gowns, the ‘natural’ sweetness of my manner, the 
charm of ‘unconsciousness’ — all these, that are 
attributed to me, — are a part of my self education. 
They have been carefully studied , my dear public : 
this is the truth. 

Ja?iuary 26. — There are some reasons why I should 
be an actress : I like the genuine admiration of 
many, rather than the uncertain affection of a few. 
I am pretty in my face, exquisite in my form. I am 
graceful in manner and in movement. I walk well, 
I pose well. I like effect. I do much for effect ; 
and the best of it is that I do not appear to be doing 
it. I am naturally dramatic. I have splendid 
health, and I have personal magnetism. I am often 
enthusiastic ; and when I am not, I have enough of 
patience and the stick-at-it element to get along 
without enthusiasm. I am also intelligent. 

Florine, there is nothing vain about this — this 
counting over of your rosary of perfections ! 

No ; for it is the truth. Besides, I would not 
only be an actress, I would be an artiste . I am a 
conscientious worker. I should aim to be an artiste 
in the true sense of the word ; I should not be satis- 
fied with the outside trappings of one. I should not 


92 


FLORINE. 


be ambitious to be popular — I should be ambitious 
to be great. 

February 2. — I never was jealous. I have no need 
to be. They whom I love, love me enough to sat- 
isfy me. 

But I am envious. I am envious of one person — of 
one thing. I ought not to be ; for I have everything 
to make me happy. 

Once before I mentioned this ugly fact. I men- 
tioned it very lightly. I should like to have written 
it down in letters so small that you, my daughter, 
would not be able to read it. However, I wonder if 
every living being has not once in his life or her life, 
known some one who has been in the way of his or 
her perfect self satisfaction — some one, in short, 
whom that human being envies ? 

Whom do I envy ? What do I envy ? I will tell 
you, my daughter — for my punishment I will tell 
you. You will be ashamed of your mother, as she is 
ashamed of herself. I am envious of a girl — I am 
envious of her complexion. 

This girl is one of my companions — that is, she is 
one of ‘ our set’; and she has a skin that is like a 
rose — as creamy, as velvety, as fresh. 

My skin is also like this. Yes ; but it needs the 
greatest care. Emotion, want of sleep, bad digestion 


FLORINE. 


93 


— any one of these can make the delicate shade wan ; 
so that I cannot always be sure of looking my best. 

But this girl’s skin is insolent in its perfection. 
The night-waking, the wind, the sun, the dew of the 
morning or the dew of tears — all these make its fine- 
ness more fine. 

“But she is stupid!” others say — and I keep 
saying — “ and has only her wonderful skin.” 

No matter ; it is her skin that makes me unhappy. 
If I could save her from small-pox, without the risk 
to myself, I would do it ; that would be too ravag- 
ing. But suppose she should have malaria, and one 
should tell me it had left her skin less beautiful — do 
you think I would say, “ Oh, what a pity !” or “ How 
sorry I am !” 

I would say nothing ; because I should be ashamed 
of the truth. 

Envy is the ugliest of all ugliness. I shall be 
ashamed of this as long as I live. 

February 3. — That is not wholly true — what I 
wrote yesterday : I have not everything to make me 
happy. I have said I would not write about this 
misfortune ; that I would forget it. But I do not 
forget it ; and I grieve always over it ; it is that I 
am only a graceful dancer. Many other girls are 
graceful dancers. But for the horrid accident, that 


94 


FLORINE. 


I brought upon myself, I should be a marvelous 
dancer. 

Florine, you are a sensible girl. You ought to 
know that of all amusements dancing soonest loses 
its flavor for us. We soonest get too much of it. 

That must be true. Because, mamma once had a 
passion for dancing, and she cares nothing at all for 
it now. And papa dances elegantly. But he says 
sometimes the movement seems ridiculous ; that men 
and women look grotesque : this is when he is in a 
critical mood — and when he is looking on instead of 
dancing. However, it seems it is an enjoyment that 
goes with the going of youth’s springiness. 

Well, I am still young, and I am not yet tired of 
it. You know how often I wish to fly ? Dancing is 
nearest to flying. Waltzing is floating. 

Just think, when my blood is leaping, when niy 
pulses are bounding, when nerve and muscle and the 
whole body is full of the desire to move, when I feel 
like dancing on and on — I must stop ! Is it not dis- 
tressing ? 

I can only make a certain number of engagements 
for the evening ; and often the last steps of my 
limited waltz are an agony. 

Think of this, will you — when other girls, who 
have whole feet, can dance and dance till they dance 
their flying mood away ? 


FLORINE. 


95 


Do you think I envy them their delight ? I do not. 
My suffering has made me noble in this. I am glad 
they can dance ; but I pity myself. 

When I can no longer dance ; when after a wild 
waltzing that everybody sees with my whole heart I 
am enjoying, I refuse to dance — what do you think 
js said ? That it is a caprice ; that I am so clever, so 
intellectual, I tire of everything. Some do not say 
anything ; but they look from their clear eyes this : 

“ Dancing does not amuse Miss Dwight, — she is 
too wise ; but it pleases us, and we will dance.” 

O, sweet girls ! if you knew that I am loving it as 
you love it, that it pleases me as it pleases you — you 
would pity me ! — some of you ; others would be 
glad. 

But you do not know it. I am so delicately proud, 
so daintily disdainful in my seeming ennui, that no 
one could suspect the truth. 

That is all we know about each other. 

And do you think when I am in my box at the 
opera, smiling and bowing to my friends, that I do 
not think of my hurt voice ? I cannot keep myself 
from thinking of it. When I flutter my handker- 
chief, and pat my hands till they burn— do you not 
think that a pang and pangs go out with my 
enthusiasm ? Indeed, I sadly remember the voice 


96 


FLORINE. 


that I had ; I sadly know what now is impossible, 
and I deplore what might have been possible. 

What a pity ! what a pity that anything should 
spoil the perfection of one’s self ! And it is I 
who have done this for myself. God gave me 
enough to make a complete self of me — and I have 
spoiled His work. We are always spoiling God’s 
work — stumbling, stupid, obstinate mortals that we 
are ! 

February 14. — I find that I like men ; that I like 
them better than women. However, I say this with 
a reservation : because, I love my mother more than 
I believe I could ever love any man ; and there must 
be other women as lovable as my mother ; so that I 
may change in this conclusion. At least, I cannot 
be so sure that it is a correct conclusion, as I am sure 
of the correctness of some other conclusions. 

To be quite frank, my daughter, I do not think I 
understand women as I do men. But of this I can 
be sure : that at present I simply admire women ; 
I do not love them. 

I find, too, that I am intellectually my best with 
men — every way my best with them ; that they 
encourage a certain candor, a certain expansiveness 
of my thoughts and my opinions. But with women 


FLORINE. 


97 


I instinctively hold my true self in reserve. I do 
not know why this is — but it is. 

And men say they like to talk to me. I really 
think they do : because, I do not seek their society, 
they seek mine. And I am not always charming to 
them ; I am often mocking, "often critical. I do not 
seem to adore them, I let them seem to adore me. 
I am conciliatory only by moods. Sometimes I 
think I give them the impression that they have 
only to reach out to me in order to get a caress from 
me. But they are always wondering why they have 
not yet reached out to me, and why they have not 
yet had the caress. I can read this wonder in their 
faces — sometimes in an unfinished gesture. This 
illusive sweetness of mine has a touch of the 
diablerie . 

I think I could hold the love of any man that I 
could truly love. 

However, I do not like any man in a personal way 
— that is, in the way I fancy I should love a man to 
marry him. I love the qualities, the accomplish- 
ments, the mind of men ; I do not love the man. I 
am delighted to possess the homage, the admiration, 
the esteem — even the affection of men : I do not 
wish them to possess anything of me but the charm 
of me. 

When I love as I think I could love, it must not 


98 


FLORINE. 


be like this. I shall want to love the min$, the 
heart, and the body. I shall want to love the body 
as my own ; and it must be as dainty and as sweet 
as my own. In loving this being I shall want to 
love love. And I shall want to be loved also like 
this. 

But I do not think often about marrying. I think 
so little about it, that you see I have not written 
about it. 

March 15. — Brownie has just gone. His name is 
Brown — but everybody calls him Brownie. 

I have wasted the whole of this morning in a 
scene. This is only one of many mornings I have 
wasted in the same way. I record this because 
there is more of sincerity in it. For whatever else he 
has of doubtful goodness. Brownie has without a 
doubt this goodness — he is sincere. 

I hold that it is not difficult to know when one is 
sincere. We feel another’s sincerity. There is no 
shadow of that instinctive doubt that comes of itself 
when one has reason to doubt. The truth is, that 
an intelligent being is rarely duped. It is oftener 
that he fears to know the truth ; oftener that he 
permits himself to be duped. 

Brownie is one of the average nice men. I do not 
think he has many vices — or even one vice. He is 


FLORINE. 


99 


his mother’s and his aunt’s idol. He would be 
spoiled by their always coddling him, if he were not 
so matter-of-fact. He is very cool, very drawling, 
very English. This was a part of the conversation 
this morning : 

Brownie. — “You are the sweetest girl I know. 
You know there are girls and girls. Some girls a 
fellow would never think of wanting to marry.” 

Florine. — “ Well, a * fellow ’ doesn’t marry some 
girls. It is biblically understood he may marry only 
one girl at a time.” 

Brownie. — “ I don't mind your chaffing, Miss 
Florine ; but you know very well that I mean you 
are the kind of a girl a fellow would want for a 
wife.” 

Florine. — “ I suppose you mean to be complimen- 
tary, Brownie ; but one likes to imagine one is unique 
— and not a girl of a ‘ kind.’ However, I think 
myself that I should make an admirable wife. Were 
I a man I should wish to marry me.” 

j Brownie. — “ There’s nothing vain about you ?” 

He said this with a good-natured laugh. 

Floi'ine. — “ Thanks, no. I am simply intelligent 
enough to have a correct opinion of myself.” 

Brownie. — “ Seriously', Miss Florine, may I speak 
to your father about you ?” 

Florine. — “ Seriously, Brownie, no. You may just 


100 


FLORINE. 


as well keep on speaking of myself to me. JPapa is 
not more interested in me than I am in myself.” 

Brownie. — “ Oh, it isn’t that, you know. It is only 
that it would be the correct thing to speak to him 
first ; good form, you know, to get his permission to 
speak to you. But I want something to count upon 
— something from you, you know. I don’t want to 
make a goose of myself.” 

Florine. — “ You couldn’t do that, Brownie, — not in 
the nature of things. The witch days are over ; you 
will always have to be only a man. To tell the truth 
— you are one of the nicest men I know.” 

I am so chary of compliments, that I think 
Brownie’s heart leaped at that ; for the least bit of a 
flush passed over his face, his eyes brightened, and 
he spoke a trifle quicker than with his habitual 
drawl. 

Brownie. — “ Florine — I mean Miss Dwight, do you 
really think that— that I am nice enough for you ? 
Would you — could you — may I hope to — I mean do 
you love me well enough to marry me ?” 

Florine. — “ No, Brownie, I didn’t mean that. That 
is, I don’t want you to think that I mean you are 
not nice enough for me. You are too nice for any 
girl that does not love you ; and I don’t love you — • 
that is, the way you would want me to love you. I 
am sure, too, that you don’t mean what you say, 


FLORINE. 


101 


Brownie. You think you do, but you really do not. 
You feel romantic this morning. You want to do 
something unusual. I often feel like that. You see 
me sitting here where the sunlight falls over me and 
my red gown. There is something bright and pretty 
in the picture. You feel a little domestic, a little 
husbandly. But, Brownie, it is not the right sort of 
a feeling to last for ever and ever, ‘ till death do us 
part.’ ” 

Brownie . — “ How do you know it isn’t ? I feel that 
I could give up the races, billiards, the club, suppers, 
girls — everything for your sake, to stay with you, or 
to go with you — to be always with you ! I should 
like to know what the ‘right sort of a feeling 1 is, 
that will last for ever and ever, if that isn’t it !” 

Florine . — “Ah well, Brownie, two must think like 
that if one thinks like that, to marry ; and I shouldn’t 
care to have you give up anything for me. I 
shouldn’t want to give up anything for you. That 
is why we shouldn’t marry. I like you, I have even 
an affection for you. It is.pleasant to talk to you, to 
be with you ; but I am not in love with you. I 
don’t love any one as well as I love myself. I don’t 
want to love any one, at present. I wish to be com- 
fortable ; and if all that I hear is true, one in love is 
not always comfortable.” 


102 


FLORINE. 


Brownie . — “ Miss Dwight, do you really mean 
this ? Is this your answer ?” 

Florine . — “ Yes, Brownie.” 

Brownie. — “Then I’ll go to the ‘bad !’ I’ll make 
a brute of myself ! What’s the use to be a gentle- 
man, if one is treated like this ? I’ve nothing — noth- 
ing to live for, now !” 

Florine. — “ No, you won’t go to the ‘ bad,’ Brownie ! 
You are too sensible, and your tastes are not that 
way. And you will always be a gentleman because 
it is your nature to be one. And you have just as 
much to live for now as you had a half hour ago. 
Think of it, Brownie, and you will admit there are 
more words than there is truth in what you say.” 

Brownie. — “ You can be as mocking as you wish, 
Miss Dwight, if you feel like it — and you always 
have felt like it with me; but I always thought you 
had a warm heart. I don’t say you haven’t now — 
but it’s not warm for me.” 

Florifie. — “ Yes, it is, Brownie, it is warm for you. 
Believe me, I do like you, and I should feel deeply 
hurt to lose you as my friend.” 

Brownie. — “Well, you are going to lose me ! I’m 
not going to be your friend ! I’m not coming to 
see you again ! I’m all broke up !” 

Florine. — “ Save the pieces, Brownie ! The anat- 
omy of a man is so curious, that so long as he takes 


FLORINE. 


103 


care of the pieces, lie can put himself together again 
and no one will suspect he has been mended.” 

Brownie looked disgusted, and left me without 
another word. 

I shall give him just one month to put himself 
together ; then he will come back as drawling, as 
good-natured, and as light-hearted as ever. You 
will see. 

Now why do you think Brownie thought he wanted 
to marry me ? I will tell you. We are both rich, 
both of good family, both * in society.' Brownie's 
mother and aunt wish him to marry. They have 
pictured to him the advantages and the delights of a 
married man with a family, till he has persuaded 
himself it would be the right thing for him to marry. 
If he is to be married at all, he imagines I am one 
of the best girls to marry : because he likes me — as 
a great many other men like me — because I am 
‘nice.' That is all. 

You see I know all about it. I have heard 
Brownie’s mother and aunt discuss the ‘settling’ of 
this young man’s future. When I was ‘growing up’ 
I heard them talk about it ; and I was not the 
young girl he was then to marry — I am the effect of 
an after-thought. Il’m ! young girls know more 
than people imagine they know. 

I don’t believe Brownie will ever marry ; that he 


104 


FLORINE. 


will ever even propose to another. Not from dis- 
appointment in not getting me ; but from laziness, 
from indifference, from dislike of the possibility of a 
‘ scene,’ such as he had with me ; or he will simply 
put it off till not to marry becomes a fixed habit. 
Perhaps he may make an ideal of his fancy for me, 
imagining it to be the one love of his life. Nothing 
is so deceiving — as I have observed it — as the senti- 
ment, or the illusion, we often call love. 

April 8. — I was mistaken. It has not taken 
Brownie a month to put his broken self together. It 
has only been three weeks since he left my presence 
in seeming despair. He was here last evening look- 
ing the picture of content. I suspect he did not 
trouble himself at all, not even for a day, about 
what he could not help. That proves his good 
sense — and also the lightness of his attack. 

May 5. — We are to go to Newport in June. Since 
my dtbut I have done nothing in the way of writing 
— except to write occasionally in you, my Journal ; 
and at Newport I shall also do nothing. 

If this life goes on I shall never amount to more 
than other society girls amount to : that is, I si all 
only be brilliant — I shall not be useful. 

Of what use is it to be more gifted, more intelli- 


FLORINE. 


105 


gent, and more reflective than others about me, if I 
am to do nothing more than they do — nothing that 
they and others may think well of me for having 
done ? 

Florine, the life you lead is not worthy of you ! 

That is true ; I am not satisfied with it. I am 
satisfied of it, but I am not satisfied with it. I mean 
it is something of the enjoyable to my life, but it is 
not everything of the enjoyable : and it is nothing at 
all of the useful. 

That is how I feel ; and when one feels like that 
there must be some reason for feeling so. 

However, if one is not something more than an 
ordinary being, one learns to love this buzzing, 
waltzing life — perpetually love it ; or one becomes so 
accustomed to it that it ends in being a necessity. 

But I am not an ordinary being ; and I am not 
satisfied with an always life ‘in society.’ Iam too 
thoughtful, too analytical, too loftily ambitious to be 
wholly pleased with it. It is not only the waste of 
time — the literal eating up of time — that I deplore ; 
it is the lack of absolute enjoyment in the enjoying 
of it. 

There are others that must have fewer reasons 
than I to be satisfied with their enjoyment of it. I 
have been the acknowledged belle of the season. I 
have been feted and feted. But I am only satisfied 


106 


FLORINE. 


with my enjoyment while I am enjoying it ; in think- 
ing about it, it does not make me either thankful or 
glad. 

I am sure there is a large amount of dissatisfac- 
tion — if not distress — following in the wake of every 
brilliant society event ; and as almost every member 
of society gives one or more of these ‘ events,’ the 
season is one of perpetual dissatisfaction. 

I judge by myself ; and I am one of the successful 
ones. I accept the admiration given to me, the 
homage offered to me. I must be just to myself, and 
say to you, my daughter, that I am not at all envi- 
ous of those about me. I do not desire others to be 
less admired and less happy than I am. I am not 
aware that I wish to detract anything from the suc- 
cess of others, or from the homage paid to them. 
But there is at no time a forgetfulness of myself. I 
never feel inclined to hide my own attractiveness 
that the attractiveness of others may be better seen. 
I do not think at all of those about me. The people, 
the compliments, the music, the perfume, the radi- 
ance — all these, if they do not intoxicate me, have 
an influence upon me. I try to make myself as 
charming as possible. I am resolute to please — to 
subdue. I vaguely congratulate myself upon my 
success — my monopoly of attention. 

And for this, later, in thinking seriously upon it, I 


FLORINE. 


107 


am ashamed of myself. I cannot think of my suc- 
cess without thinking, too, of the wounded vanity of 
some others less successful. For monopoly of one 
individual means the eclipse of, or the detraction 
from some other individual or individuals. 

And yet, I so well know myself, that I know were 
I not to monopolize, I should be uneasy ; were I not 
admired, I should be unhappy ; were I not a success, 
I should be furious. An intelligent and sensitive 
being ‘ in society,’ is either distressed because she is 
not one of the belles of society, or she is ashamed of 
her self-satisfaction in being one of the belles. That 
is how it is. 

You see, my daughter, that while I am enjoying I 
am thoroughly impressed with the worthlessness as 
well as the worth of my enjoyment. However, these 
reflections do not keep me from amusing myself so 
long as I am a success ; neither do they give me the 
courage to forsake, of my own will, the life I am 
abusing. 

Others have doubtless been impressed in the same 
way, and have not been more courageous than I: 
that is why there are always people ‘ in society.’ 

June 26. — Papa loses heavily in these days. He 
knows he may ruin us, and still he keeps on playing. 

Poor papa ! he is changing. He is no longer boy- 


108 


FLORINE. 


« 


isli in his manner, and he looks tired. There are 
little lines about the eyes and mouth. 

Mamma begs him to stop now — before it is too 
late. She says we have enough, with only her 
money, to live comfortably ; and that papa need not 
do anything. But papa hopes to gain all he has lost. 

That is how it always is. Gambling is the most 
illusive of all illusions. While it is slipping away 
with one’s money — one’s reason and one’s will are 

i 

also slipping away. It seems that one has only to 
lose and to keep on losing, in order to keep on hop- 
ing to win. 

I have learned something about gamblers since I 
have known my papa is one. They are a unique 
class. They are as a rule kind of heart. Their good 
humor or their bad humor depends upon their suc- 
cess. It goes up or down the barometer according 
to the latest good or bad luck. That is why papa 
was always gay before mamma knew his secret — he 
was always ‘ in luck.’ It takes an untroubled mind 
to play well — papa says ; and that it is his thoughts 
of mamma that trouble the sureness of his playing ; 
and that her praying brings him ill luck. 

Poor man ! It is his conscience. Now that he 
knows that mamma knows, he will never be able to 
forget that she knows, and her tearful warning to 
him — that God knows. 


FLORINE. 


109 


I suppose I do not feel, as mamma does, all there 
is of the ominous in our situation. I think, too, that 
mamma’s dread has more of instinct than of reason. 
Why, if we are poorer, has papa come to Newport ? 
This is a costly place. 

But I see no signs about us that we are not as rich 
as we have always been. Our life is very luxurious. 
[ could not be happy with any other life, and any 
other surroundings than these. I hope that we shall 
always be rich. 

I am sure that in this desire there is nothing of the 
mercenary. I have no liking foi the tinsel of riches, 
no weakness for display. I value money only for its 
uses ; to insure my comfort, and to surround my life 
with the exquisite. I want it that others may enjoy 
it with me. I want it in order to feel good myself, 
and to do good. 

I do not wish to be rich simply to be known as 
rich. I care nothing for moneyed station ; and noth- 
ing more for a man because he has money ; I care for 
him only as he uses his money. * 

Mv aristocracy is in me — born with me. It is an 
aristocracy of fineness . I feel the difference between 
this innate exquisiteness of myself and the gilded 
appearance of it in some others. I could not be happy 
without money ; but I should be as proud had I noth- 
ing in the world belonging to me but myself. 


110 


FLORINE. 


July ii. — Mr. L lias proposed, I will say this : 

that I have done all I could to make him propose. I 
have coveted this bonbon for my vanity ; this — the 
pleasure of refusing him, I will tell you why : 

He is a materialist — is Mr. L , I hate material- 

ists, They are beings wholly antagonistic to me. 
They have neither the taste for sentiment, of any 
kind, nor the appreciation of it. They have no 
sympathy with the poetry of life, no comprehension 
of the ideal. 

This man is intelligent and cultured. He is a 
thorough man of the world. He is charming in his 
manner and correct in his habits. But he is the most 
material of materialists. He is absolutely without 
belief of any sort, and without enthusiasm. He is a 
creature without illusions. Beauty does not impress 
him, the charming has no effect upon him. He is 
interested only in what is of use to him — materially, 
substantially of use. 

He refuses to admire what is most admirable in 
me. He does not appreciate the best in me — he 
never could appreciate it. But I talk to him, I 
laugh with him ; I listen to his talking, his punning, 
his storv-telling, — to everything I do not care to 
hear — and I feel like striking him. 

And he likes me most because I do not like him. 


FLORINE. 


Ill 


He feels my antipathy to him, and he enjoys the 
amusement of provoking this antipathy. 

He is a bachelor. He hates ‘gush.’ He will 
never lose his heart — he thinks too mucli of his flesh. 
He does not want to love, I am sure of that ; and he 
does not want to marry — I am surer of that . It 
vexes him to have any feeling in regard to me. 
Without doubt he is astonished at his desire to 
propose to me. This is why I wished him to propose ; 
and this is how he proposed. 

Materialist . — “ Do you know that I cannot get 
you out of my mind ? It is irritating to think that 
I cannot forget you.” 

Florine . — “Then I must be disagreeable to you, 
that you wish to forget me ?” 

Materialist . — “ No, you are like my conscience : 
I don’t want to get rid of you, and I don’t want to 
be troubled by you — to be followed, as it were, by 
you.” 

Florine . — “ Thanks. I can imagine there might be 
reasons why you would not wish me, any more than 
your conscience, to follow you. The presence of a 
younggirl has, I presume, the same effect upon most 
men as the keeping of a good conscience.” 

Materialist “ That is one of the illusions of your 
sex. But I don’t mean that. I mean that I keep 


112 


FLORINE. 


thinking of you when away from you ; I see your 
little mocking face always before me, and ** 

Florine . — “ You don’t like ‘ gush ’ — I have heard 
you say.” 

Materialist . — “ That is it : I don’t like gush. And 
I was going to say that I feel nearer that way — the 
gushing way — than I wish ; and that we might as 
well end it.” 

Florine. — “ I don’t know why you say ‘ we ;’ I have 
not yet begun it. You don’t mean to say that I ever 
uttered a word of sentiment to you — that I have 
even looked it at you ?” 

Materialist. — “ No ; that is what I like about you. 
You are clever enough to forget yourself, to shadow 
yourself, as it were, in order to be more agreeable to 
some other self.” 

Florine. — “ That is not a remarkably lucid expres- 
sion. But as you are one of the great sons of men, 
you must have in your mind a * total eclipse ’ of poor 
little me.” 

Materialist. — “Don’t try to pun. You know you 
don’t like even successful punning — although you 
pretend to like it. 

“ What I wish to say is this : that although I have 
always thought I never would marry, I have now 
about decided that I ought to marrv. Because, a 
man is better as a family man. He has more 


FLORINE. 


113 


influence, he is of more importance. What do you 
think about it ?” 

Florine. — “About what — whether a man is better 
to be a family man, or not to be one ? I think that 
depends upon the disposition of the man. There 
are some men, I fancy, that had better not have been 
men at all ; they had better be anything, than what 
they are — selfish animals of no good to any one, and 
a cause of misery to some one.” 

Materialist. — “ l quite agree with you. But I 
mean — what do you think about marrying me ? You 
are so intelligent, that we should never bore each 
other. You have really a fascination for me. I 
should make a better husband for you than you 
imagine ; no gush, of course ; but real, husbandly 
protection, you know.” 

Florine. — “ Do you really mean that you want to 
marry ? that you want to marry met” 

Materialist. — “That is like you — to be minute. 
Well, I can’t truthfully say that I do want to marry ; 
but I certainly want to marry you." 

Florine. — “That is a distinction that one would 
have to be very much in love with you, and believe 
very much in your love, to be flattered by it. But 
what you really have in your mind, is that you like 
me as well as you have ever liked any girl ; that I 
am agreeable to you ; that you like to talk, and you 


114 


FLORINE. 


like me because I listen to you when you talk. You 
are interested in me because I do not spoil you as 
women generally spoil you. You are piqued because 
I am not overpowered by you. Your knowledge 
and your eloquence do not utterly quelch me ; this 
bruises your vanity. I am troublesome to you. It is 
the ‘gnat and the lion.' You feel my antagonism, 
and there is something for you to subdue.” 

“ You imagine it is me that you desire ; it is my 
awe of you, my adoration of you that you desire. 
You want to marry me for the gratification of know- 
ing you can marry me, of proving to yourself that I 
think well enough of you to marry you. Your pro- 
posal is the result of pique, of curiosity, and the wish 
to subdue ; there is nothing of sentiment in it.” 

Materialist . — “ Perhaps you are right. Now that 
I think of it, I know you are right. Well, what does 
it matter? Do you think many people know just 
why they marry? It does not seem so — after they 
are married.” 

Florine . — “You remember Rochefoucauld says, 
* Love is a phantom that every one talks about, but 
that few ever see.’ Be sure you are not one of 
the few who have seen it. You never will see it. I 
fancy you do not believe in its existence. I do. 
I have not yet seen it ; but I hope to see it — before 
I marry. That is why I cannot marry you.”. 


FLORINE. 


115 


Materialist. — “Well, think about it — think about 
it ! You may change your mind.” 

He said this as one might say it of anything one 
was hesitating to bargain for — or to get rid of. He 
did not expect a reply ; for he went on talking of 
other things — as if what we had just been talking 
had not been talked. 

July 23 — It is not quite two weeks since that little 
episode — that was meant for a love scene — took 
place. My materialist comes regularly to see us. 
You would never suspect that it — the episode — had 
taken place. 

I have not ‘changed my mind,’ and he has not 
asked me if I have changed it. We never refer to 
the subject. He is as clever, as cold, as unsym- 
pathetic as ever. He stim'ulates only the diablerie 
in me. I forget I have a heart when he is near. 

He is sorry, I am sure, that he proposed ; sorry 
only because he did not succeed — sorry that I do not 
belong to him, and that I belong yet to myself. Had 
I accepted him he would still be sorry. 

July 27. — However well I may succeed in a certain 
outward sweetness of manner, I have in my heart a 
contempt for the larger part of humanity. Because, 
I am convinced that the larger part are small. Small 


116 


FLORINE. 


in their thinking, small in their doing. When I see 
this, and with what small things most people are 
elated, with what gewgaws they are pleased, with 
what monkeyism they are amused — I am better sat- 
isfied with myself. 

I have no time for the trifling trifles of life ; for 
there is a difference between small things and small 
things. A mosquito can torture me, a forget-me-not 
can charm me — but a rattle does not interest me. 
There -are men and women always looking out for 
rattles. 

Oh, the ignorance of some beings ! It is this that 
tries the patience of intelligent beings. 

August 16. — Society life is a perpetual imbroglio. 
Many things are supposed to be hidden from young 
girls; but we are always seeing and hearing things 
that astonish us. These unexpected discoveries can- 
not be avoided. Our mammas do not suspect that 
we have discovered anything ; and our native 
delicacy, or our native hypocrisy, leads us to pre- 
tend that we have not. 

French people think it atrocious that American 
girls know so much before their marriage. It may 
be atrocious — atrocious that it is at all to know ; but 
why is it more atrocious for a sensible, full grown 


FLORINE. 


117 


girl to know certain unchangeable facts before her 
marriage, than after her marriage ? 

I do not see that I should have been made better, 
in any way, by a long drawn out ignorance of people 
and things. I had intelligent ideas of truths when 
an unknowing child. These ideas impressed them- 
selves upon me without any apparent reason. 

Every intelligent girl is curious. Her curiosity 
pushes her to inquiry. In one way or another she 
will know the truth, or suspect it. Knowledge 
comes through subtle agencies that are under the 
control of no one. These mysterious ways of trou- 
bling the young minds with a suspicion of the truth, 
are more dangerous than a sensible and frank revel- 
ation of the whole truth. 

After all, it is not what we know, it is the nature 
of the individual that knows it, that brings about 
painful or felicitous results — unworthy or ennobling 
results. 

September 15. — I honor my superiors — but I cannot 
be servile to them ; that is, I cannot make them feel 
that I feel they are superior to me. To tell the truth 
I do not think I have ever felt that they are. Because 
it has always been like this : when I recognize a 
greatness in them that makes them superior to me, 


118 


FLORINE. 


I discover a smallness in them that makes them 
inferior to me. 

My daughter, I think that I love everybody. But 
I love them as a sovereign might love them — or as a 
good grandmother would love them. That is, I 
have no desire to be intimate with any one of them, 
but I should like to feel that I was a good to all of 
them ; that I was a far-reaching, large-handed bless- 
ing over them. 

I should like to govern a nation. I was born to 
govern — to govern in a large way. I should like to 
be President. I should rule wisely and well. I 
would be very human but very correct ; very exact- 
ing but very just. 

I should make different laws for governing this 
country — better laws. I should find a way to reach 
every county of every State, with a watchful eye 
and a helping hand. I should not have so many 
people very miserable, and so few people very com- 
fortable. I should have them all comfortable. 

You do not believe this. But I would find a way 
to bring it about. I should make a wise, a kind, and 
a useful President. My people would obey me and 
respect me. They would be industrious and they 
would be happy. 

I should also make a polite people of the Ameri- 
cans. The politeness that I would encourage should 


FLORINE. 


119 


have all of the outer charm of the French politeness ; 
and it should have also an inner worth — that the 
politeness of the French does not always have. 
True courtesy is the half of correct living, of noble 
living — of successful living. True courtesy is simply 
a genuine and a universal kindness. 

I should have no chicanery, no uncleanness, no 
gaudiness, no commonness at Washington ; I should 
have wisdom, integrity, intelligence, and individual 
nobility. 

Speaking of politeness, I must tell you, my daugh- 
ter, that I have very good manners. Even mamma 
is satisfied with me in this. 

Away back in time I had a great, great, (many 
times great) grandfather who was a duke. He was 
banished from France for political reasons, or driven 
from it by religious persecution. There may be 
something in the handing of me down from this 
grand court family. I may be a remnant of tradi- 
tional courtesy — of the noblesse oblige , if you please. 

But no matter how this is ; I have very good 
manners. I have a great deference for the aged. I 
am sweet to everybody ; but I am near to nobody. 
It is like this : you think my suavity is a flower that 
you may pluck ; but you see the stem in the hand 
of a queen, and you are afraid. 


120 


FLORINE. 


October 17. — I receive many offers of marriage. I 
do not write about them, because they do not 
impress me as worth writing about. 

I seem to be the kind of a girl that men seej?i to 
want to marry. I say ‘ seem,’ to be on the safe side. 
However, I am wise for my age, and I know human 
nature. I know it instinctively and not from experi- 
ence ; or, to know it is a part of my natural intelli- 
gence. 

And this is what I suspect : that were it not for 
my wealth and my social position, I should not 
receive so many offers. No matter that I am charm- 
ing in myself, that I am clever ; these alone would 
not induce the kind of men to marry — that want to 
marry me. 

By the way, the girls of to-day are not so anxious, 
and not so much in haste to marry, as they used to 
be. Thev are very cautious, very foxy, very mercen- 
ary. The young men are not more precipitate — in 
their desire to marry ; and they are equally cautious, 
foxy, and mercenary. 

The young men and women cultivate each other for 
any other motive than marriage ; and it is mutually 
understood that each has a motive. The intimacv 
is regulated in its suavity and its intensity by the 
amount of enjoyment or use extracted therefrom . It 
is a ‘ give and take ’ game. A game that tarnishes 


FLORINE. 


121 


the fineness of the girl, and adds nothing to the faith 
and the manliness of the man. 

November 24. — E has proposed. E is, or he 

has been, a jolly, happv-hearted boy, with the spring- 
time of sweetness yet in his nature, and the spring- 
time of tenderness yet in his heart. He is of very 
good family, and has carte blanche everywhere. He 
is a favorite with men as well as with women. He 
is so young and so good that women forget to be 
cautious, and are sincere with him. Hence he 
knows something of the truth of everybody ; and lie 
is very entertaining. 

E has spent many hours with me, in telling 

over what he has seen and heard. He tells it in a 
naive manner that is delightful as well as amusing to 
me. It was during these hours — so he says — that he 
learned to love me, and fancied that I was loving 
him. 

Think of it ! He is as old as I ; but I have an 
affection for him that I might have for you — were 
you my son instead of my daughter. It makes me 
sick to think what wrong I was doing in being so 
kind to him. And he is so gentle, so good ; that is 
why I feel so bad. 

He began by talking gayly of what he should do 
when he was married — looking the while unutter- 


122 


FLORINE. 


able things at me. And I did not even suspect what 
he thought I surely knew ; this is why I said : 

“And are you really in earnest, dear, in thinking 
about your marriage ? You are so young.” 

‘Dear ’does not mean anything from me — in the 
way of sentiment. Every one knows this ; it is only 
a proof of my very good humor. Some man, that I 
shall one day love very much, I shall never call 
‘ dear.’ 

“Yes he said, “I am very young; but I know 
my mind. What’s the use of waiting when one 
loves as I love, and is loved in return — as I believe 
I am loved ? I don’t want to be one of the old 
young men, before I marry — and I don’t want to be 
an old man, either. I want to marry while I can 
give the best of myself to my wife.” 

“ That is a nice thought, dear, if you are quite sure 
that you love, and that you are loved. But people 
change, you know, as they grow older ; and you 
might be sorry — you might wish you were not 
married.” 

“ Sorry ! How could I be sorry ? And you — 
would you be sorry ?” 

“ I ? How could my being sorry affect you ?” 

“ How would it affect me ? It would break my 
heart — that’s what it would do ! Florine, are you 


FLORINE. 


123 


not sure of your love ? Do you not love me as I love 
you ?" 

How do you think I felt when the boy said this ? 
— and his eyes had a scared look. I felt like a 
criminal. 

“ My dear boy, you don’t mean that you love me 
like that? That you think I love you like that? 
That you think we shall ever be married ?’* 

There are two many ‘ tliats ’ in that sentence; but 
I said it just that way ; and I was thinking of my dis- 
tress— our distress — and not of my rhetoric. I said it 

very gently, too — taking his hand and caressing it ; 

/ 

but his eyes were'already full of tears ; and his chin 
quivered, and his voice quivered — in a way that gave 
me the old-fashioned choke in my throat. 

“That is what I mean, Florine — and what I thought 
you meant. What else could you have meant through 
all these months, in being so loving to me — so much 
sweeter to me than you are to any one else ?” 

“It was because I do love you, dear — because I 
have a sincere affection for you ! You are so good, 
so true, that I trust you and love you as a brother — 
you know I have no brother. But I never meant to 
mislead you. I would rather suffer a great deal than 
have you think I was coquetting with you — that I 
was trifling with you. I never imagined that you 


124 


FLORINE. 


were loving me in a different way from my way of 
loving you. I am so sorry — oh, I am so sorry !” 

He had thrown himself on a sofa, and was sobbing 
like a hurt child. I looked at his pretty chin — that 
still quivered, at the very white face, at the tears that 
fell burning upon my hand — and I cried too, with 
him. 

“ Florine, this morning I said to myself, if you 
would not marry me, soon, I should go to India, 
Now, that you are not going to marry me at all, I 
am going to kill myself. O, Florine, Florine ! you 
are not my little Florine — and you will one day be 
some other man’s little Florine ! F swear to you that 
I shall go out of this house to put an end to my life ! 
Oh, I am so unhappy ! And were I to live on I 
could never forget, never again be happy ! Florine, 
Florine ! I love you — I love you !” 

The poor boy sobbed this out in hysterical jerks 
that were — each one — like a touch of cold steel to 
my heart. 

I reasoned with him, I tried to comfort him. I 
begged him to do nothing violent — for his mother’s 
sake, for my sake. But he declared that before 
to-morrow he would be dead ; and he spoke bitterly 
of my cruelty in causing his death, and pathetically 
of his poor mother’s grief. Then he left me with a 
haggard face and an unsteady step. 


FLORINE. 


125 


I have given upi going to a ball to-night. I am 
sick with dread. I aiil afraid to go to bed. And I 
am afraid to tell mamma the whole truth. I shall be 
afraid to read the morning papers. I shall not be 
able to sleep. That poor boy’s white face and 
quivering chin are before me. 

And I am really not to blame. I meant nothing 
more than kindness ; but I sincerely meant that. 
This has taught me a lesson. I have never been 
sorry to refuse any one before. I almost wish 1 had 
said I would marry him. Why not? He would 
make a good husband. He is so young I could 
make of him all that I should wish him to be. 
Other girls have done this — I am sure. That is 
what makes an ‘excellent marriage’ — what our 
mammas call a ‘successful marriage.’ The love is 
all on one side — the comfort all on the other. I 
think the love should be on both sides ; and I was 
right to refuse E . 

But what if he should kill himself? I should be 
indirectly his murderer ; and I could never forgive 
myself, I could never be happy. 

November 25. — I have read all the morning papers. 
And I have read of no tragedy in which I am 
interested. So then E still lives. I am thank- 

ful for that. 


126 


FLORINE. 


He has had time to reflect. Probably he has lain 
awake all night — reflecting. In that case he will be 
tired — so tired that he will fall asleep. When he 
awakens he will have his coffee and rolls — he is very 
fond of coffee ; and after that — more time to reflect. 
Then — before he feels the fever of last night’s emo- 
tion again upon him — a tempting little breakfast 
will be set before him. He will begin to feel better; 
he will conclude that it is more comfortable to be 
comfortable — that it is nice to live. 

I am no longer alarmed about E ; I am hungry. 

I shall now have my own breakfast. But I have had 
my lesson. 

December 8. — I saw E ’s mother to-day. She 

said that E had been ill with a nervous malady ; 

that he is better now ; that she is going to England, 
and that E is to accompany her. 

Ahem! He is not going to India. He is not going 
to kill himself. So much the better for him — so 
much the better for me. This is a relief. I am 
thankful to have suffered for nothing. 


FLORINE. 


127 


1876 . 


January 9. — I go to the ballet because I love to see 
good dancing. But this is the truth : an eternity of 
ballet seeing could not conquer the instinctive shiver 
at every sight of the bareness of these girls. It is not 
modesty, perhaps — at least, I shall not call it that ; 
it is my good taste that is lacerated at the often huge 
nudity, the frequent spider-like nudity — the almost 
always ugly nudity of the dancing girls ; and it is 
this that I deplore : that to see the dancing, one 
must see too much of the dancers. 

O dancing girls ! Why not dance in a picturesque 
costume — in a dainty bodice, a dream of a chemi- 
sette, a bewitching petticoat, a pair of provoking 
stockings, and daintily slippered feet ? 

This makes me think of another bareness that 
offends my sense of the fitness of things. You would 
not believe this, to look at me. But I am sure there 
are other quarter -^ owned women and girls who are 
like me in this ; I am sure there are men who are 
like this : but custom and habit make all of us 
appear not to be. 

We look unblushingly at the universal, the stereo- 
typed uncovering of neck and arms and bust before 


128 


FLORINE. 


a small world of people ; and who of us would not 
protest against this same much uncovering before 
one of these unknown people, or slightly known 
people, should chance bring us alone with him — at 
certain hours with him? 

And how do I know — bare-necked, bare-shouldered, 
and smiling proudly in my box — but that the beer- 
drinking, tobacco-chewing slum in the gallery, is not 
profaning my sweet body with an imaginary touch ? 
And do you not think that other pure girls are think- 
ing this behind their bouquets and their fans? 

It is not immodest because no one thinks it is — or no 
one ventures to say it is. Well, it is again only our 
artistic sense — our love of the ideal that is distressed. 
But this is how I feel : instead of the monotonous 
bareness, the perpetual sight of flesh and flesh, I 
should like a varied, an effective — an adjustable 
drapery. I should like glimpses of white shoulders, 
fugitive visions of rounded forms — phantoms of 
loveliness that appear and disappear. I should like, 
if you please, more of the ideal and less of the 
material — more illusion and less flesh. 

February io. — This winter I have thought even less 
of my possible marriage than during my first season 
* out.’ I do not like to think of certain changes that 
might come with my marriage. The truth is, I 


FLORINE. 


129 


should not like to have any of my single habits done 
away with, or even disarranged. 

I fancy there are many men who feel like this. I 
suspect this is why many good marrying men do not 
marry. They remain single from habit. 

Love is to many men, and to some women, an 
enjoyment and a luxury to be indulged in at 
intervals, — according to their desire and their inclina- 
tions. Every arbitrary obligation is disagreeable to 
him who loves his individual comfort and his indi- 
vidual repose. To the man of fixed habits who has 
his daily life regulated to his satisfaction, the 
thought of a change or of an any-time interruption, is 
more painful, than others who are less exclusive and 
less exacting in their conditions of comfort, can 
realize. 

I can understand this feeling. I feel like this 
when I think of marriage. 

It seems to me there is a remedy for this : if in 
married life a man and woman would be friends 
and comrades as well as husband and wife ; if they 
would respect the individual habits and tastes of 
each other ; if they would not interfere with nor 
attack the individual arrangements and moods of 
each other ; if they would employ a certain tact in 
understanding the unspoken wishes of each other, 
and be prompt in a tacit respect of those wishes ; if 


130 


FLORINE. 


each would convince the other by his or her generous 
movements and amiable conciliations that no change 
had come into their* individual life — except the 
legitimate right of each to make the other happy ; 
in short, if botli would cultivate always the delights 
of a perpetual and sympathetic comrade-ship, and 
never abuse the rights , I can imagine marriage a con- 
dition, not to dread, but to covet. 

May i. — Fora year and a half I have done nothing 
but frivols. In all this time I have written only half 
a dozen short stories ; and so indifferent that Mr. 
Bryant has not said a word about them. 

Mr. Bryant rarely comes to see me now. My life 
does not please him. It does not please myself. 

I have not been writing regularly in my Journal, 
either. I have not done so, because this second year 
‘out’ has been like the first year — only more of it, 
deeper of it. And I have been ashamed of some 
impressions I have had, of some feelings I have felt, 
and of some mistakes I have made. I want to 
forget these, and to write them down will oblige me 
to remember them. 

Besides, I am out so late at night, or we receive at 
our house so late, that when I am alone I am glad 
to go to bed, and thankful to go to sleep. In the 
morning I sleep so late that I have only time cno«[ h 


FLORINE. 


131 


to make myself comfortably ready for the evening. 
So you see I have no time, and neither the energy 
of the mind nor of the body to write as I used to 
write. 

The first year ‘ out ’ one has such a store-house of 
expectation, that one is not conscious of using one’s 
vitality. It is only the second year that one knows 
what it is to be ‘ tired.’ 

If this goes on I shall do nothing in the way of 
writing. It shall not go on. I have declared this 
many times the past year — as emphatically declared 
it. 

Say what we may against society, disapprove of 
much of it, as at times we must — it has its fascina- 
tions ; and the desire to remain in it becomes a 
habit. To come to know its hollowness and its 
uselessness does not detract from our enjoyment of 
it. I have come to believe that one learns to relish 
even the social bruises and the social torments that 
are a part of it. 

However, I am persuaded that a knowledge of this 
life is as essential to the individual education as 
any other accomplishment ; and that one cannot be 
as finished without it as with it. 

A society girl is nothing if she is not intelligent. 
She has no time to reflect, but she must all the time 
observe. She can not stop to analyze impressions, 


132 


FLORINE. 


bat she is perpetually receiving them. She holds 
thus within herself a store-house of material subject 
to her use. 

To be sure, if this life should go on and on for 
me, this material would be almost useless ; for I 
should have no time to make use of it. To be able 
to flutter always, without stopping, one must always 
be a butterfly. I should now begin to be something 
else — to be the girl I used to say, when ‘grown up’ 
I would be. 

Well, we are going Abroad. When I return I shall 
begin in earnest to be earnest. I shall have only 
now and then a summery day to flutter in — as flut- 
ters the real butterfly. I shall be of the gay world ; 
I shall not be in it. I shall appear in it rarely 
enough to be a surprise, an ‘ event.’ I shall be ‘ at 
home’ only in certain hours of certain days, and to 
certain people. I have an assured position in society, 
and I can afford to be arbitrary. I have a strong 
individuality, and I shall have the courage to main- 
tain it. In short, I shall be serious, I shall work, and 
I shall be useful. You will see. 

May 3. — I not only do not write as I used to write 
—I do not pray as I used to pray. Probably I never 
was devout, never pious. But I had an infinite faith 
in the protection of God and in the love of God ; and 


FLORINE. 


133 


I prayed with profound fervor for this protection, 
and with profound thankfulness for this love. 

The first year, following my d&but, I used to say 
my prayers always before going out for the evening. 
There was no irreverence in this. I was going to do 
nothing that my conscience could not approve. 

I cannot say so much for this year. I have had 
thoughts and feelings, even vague intentions, that 
were not in harmony with a preparatory prayer. 
And after my return home my thoughts were still 
less in harmony with my desire to pray. Besides, 
if at that late hour I have been too fatigued to write, 
I have been too fatigued to pray. Sometimes I have 
fallen asleep on my knees. But my child-faith is 
still within me, as my excellent mind is still a part 
of me. Both are only drowsily alive. They need an 
awakening. 

May 4. — I had better be quite frank with you, my 
daughter. I must either write no truth about myself, 
or I must write the whole truth. I cannot go on 
making whole gaps of months, as I have lately done, 
and say to you simply that “I do not wish to 
remember them.” 

Well then, here is the truth — the truth that I have 
tried to forget, and that I am ashamed of to myself 


134 


FLORINE. 


and to you. It is that I have been insincere — culpa- 
bly insincere. 

Think of this— -that I cannot recall the many times 
during these months, that I have fancied myself in 
love with some charming man. But the sentiment 
was hardly born till it proved itself an illusion. It 
was simply a part of some being that I was loving. 
And — would you believe it ? — I have never had the 
courage or the frankness to acknowledge this. No. 
I pleased myself with a prolonged evasiveness. I 
preferred the employment of tact — of everything that 
brings about an end without the other suspecting it 
is bringing about — an end he imagines he is not 
justified in charging me with having brought about. 

Do you see how bad this is ? — how much of vanity 
there is in it ? — how weakly womanlike it is ? 

Do you know that I have learned this ? — that 
women are as quick to change, or as quick to tire in 
their loving, as men. But women are so fine, so 
mysterious, so unfathomable in their motives and 
their movements, that no man can know when this 
change or this weariness takes place — unless the 
woman wishes him to know it. 

Men are not capable of the subtle deceptiveness of 
women. For a man to be other than his true self, 
he must have a motive. But there are times when 
neither saint nor devil, hardly the woman herself, 


FLORINE. 


135 


can know why a woman keeps on pretending to love, 
with all the ardor of sincere loving, long after she 
has ceased to love. 

May 6 . — I have a great power over men. I am 
not sure whether I should feel proud of this fact, or 
humiliated by it. In the corner of my heart — in the 
best corner of it — I have a fear : a fear that this sub- 
tle voluptuousness, that is a part of me, may have a 
stronger than a holier influence upon others and 
upon myself. I suspect that there are times when I 
like to know within myself that I am troubling the 
sensibility of others. I should be humiliated were 
these others to suspect that I am aware of this trou- 
bling. I should be mortally offended were they 
intentionally to make me know they are troubled. 
But in my heart I know what 1 am doing, and I am 
pleased of it more than I am ashamed of it. 

Then, with all my fineness I am not wholly pure ; 
because my influence is not wholly pure. Can any 
human being be pure ? To be good one must do no 
evil thing. It is not impossible to be good. To be 
pure one must never have an impure thought. What 
mortal can call himself pure ? 

May 9 . — Our going Abroad is propitious. Papa 
has changed so much that people are talking about 


136 


FLORINE 


it, and speculating as to the cause of it. Lately he 
looks so miserable that I suspect he is having some 
secret cause for 'unhappiness — some new trouble lie 
is keeping from mamma. 

As to mamma, she is so worried and so distressed, 
that often while conversing she is distraite. 

This will not do. People have become accustomed 
to mamma's attentiveness. She always listened with 
an appearance of real interest to what every one was 
saying. This was one great cause of her success. 
She pleased people by simply seeming to be inter- 
ested in them. Now that she is no longer like this, 
they seek to know why she is not. 

I do not think that it is a financial disaster that 
mamma fears now ; for we have seemed to have 
more money than ever the past year. It is papa 
himself that she is troubled about — he looks so pale, 
and so tired. Mamma fears some accident may hap- 
pen to him, or a sudden illness — while he is absent, 
at night. She is haunted by this fear. 

Papa used to stay out only very late at night ; and 
there were nights when he did not go out at all. 
Now, and for the past year, he is rarely home for the 
evening ; and when he is not, he comes home only in 
the early morning. 

People are curious. They seem to scent the pres- 
ence of family trouble, no matter how well it is con- 


/ 


FLORINE. 137 

cealed. One’s secret is found out no one knows 
how ; and once on the track of knowing it, they — 
our near and dear friends — keep to it with the 
tenacity of blood-hounds. 

I have just said there have been no signs of a 
financial change ; but one morning, some weeks ago, 
I was present when the housekeeper handed papa 
some bills for household expenses. They were bills 
of long standing ; and glancing at them papa’s face 
paled. Seeing our alarm he said he had an attack of 
vertigo. It was the next morning that he announced 
his intention of goihg Abroad. 

What surprises mamma, is that all the servants are 
to be dismissed, and that the house is to be shut up. 
We are to remain Abroad, papa says, for an inde- 
finite time. To mamma, every change looks ominous. 
For me, I am glad to go Abroad. If it is to be the 
same life, it will be in new places and among new 
people. Perhaps something will happen that it will 
not be the same life. 

July 7. — We are at Monte Carlo. We have been 
here some weeks. Mamma begged papa not to come 
here. There seemed something desperate in his 
determination to come. 

This is the very worst place for papa. Everybody 
gambles. At least, no one who thinks it wrong to 


138 


FLORINE. 


gamble would come here, unless lie was obliged to 
come. 

Mamma says she cannot pray for papa’s prosperity 
when she knows he is doing nothing else but gamble. 
And when papa complains of ill luck, mamma says 
it is his conscience, and that if he keeps on we shall 
come to grief. 

Papa at last has confided to mamma that we have 
come Abroad to economize. This is one of the best 
places not to economize. 

We — mamma and I — are willing to economize. I 

0 

should be glad to be obliged to live another life than 
a ‘society life,’ for a time. I might never have the 
resolution to quit it, as I have said I would do ; so 
that I should be sincerely grateful to a comfort- 
able necessity that would oblige me, for a time, to 
quit it. 

Mamma and I both want to go to some quiet spot 
in Switzerland, where we could economize without 
self-denial ; where mamma could rest — and where I 
could write. But papa was wild to come here, and 
will stay here. It seems that gambling has a fascina- 
tion that some people cannot resist. 

However, I must be frank enough to say that I am 
enjoying myself. We see many people that we 
know, and we make the acquaintance of others that 


FLORINE. 


139 


we did not know. Life here is exhilarating, intoxi- 
cating. 

Suppose all this should suddenly come to an end ? 
There may be more in papa’s desire to economize 
than mamma and I imagine. Well, while it lasts I 
shall make the best of it. That is my way. 

But I do not at all feel that it will not last. If I 
had feared all that mamma has feared, since the dis- 
covery about papa, I should have had none of the 
enjoyment I have had. I should have had torment 
and for nothing; for as we still spend a great deal 
of money, we must still have it to spend. 

July 20 . — Papa is dead. How dreadful that I must 
write this of my papa ! Now I know how dreadful 
it has been for others to write thus of one they have 
loved. I know too why ‘grown up ’ people cannot 
always be happy when they have apparently every- 
thing to make them happy — it is that one they have 
loved has gone forever from them. 

This is my first real sorrow. This is an epoch in 
my life — the beginning of a new life. I can never be 
the same girl that I was before papa died. No 
matter if I may be perfectly happy — my happiness 
will not be perfect. In thinking of my happiness I 
must think too of this sorrow ; and it will always be 
a thought and a memory of pain. 


140 


FLORINE. 


It happened the night before last. We were alone, 
mamma and I. Jt was a very late hour. Mamma 
must have felt what was coming — she was so sad. 
That was why I staid up with her— to comfort her. 
Suddenly the door opened and papa came in. His 
face was very much flushed, and he seemed to 
suffer. 

“ I should like some brandy,” he said, in a husky 
voice. Then seeing the pallor of mamma’s face as 
she threw her arms about him lie said : 

“ Don’t be alarmed, my love ! I have felt like 
this before.” And kissing her he pushed her gently 
from him. 

Then I handed him the brandy. He did not take 
it, but with a sudden cry put both hands to his head. 

“ Oh ! my head ! my head !” 

This was all he said ; and then he fell back upon 
the sofa. His eyes closed, — he was unconscious. A 
few minutes later he was dead. 

This then is death. I have seen other papas, of 
other girls, in their casket. But this is my papa. In 
thinking of my papa I never thought of death. I 
must always think of it now, in thinking of papa. 

It is my papa — there — lying dead ! My own 
papa, that so often held me on his knee, that kissed 
me, that smiled upon me ! My papa that I loved — 
that I pitied ! I look at the white face ; I touch it, I 


FLORINE. 


141 


kiss it. But I touch it with curiosity ; and I feel it 
is useless mummery to kiss it. This cold, still, clay- 
like substance is all that is left of my strong, proud, 
handsome papa. He that was so restless is now so 
still. 

I feel strangely in trying to realize all this. I feel 
benumbed. Or I feel not wide awake. If this that 
I see is all that is left of papa, where now is my 
thinking, speaking , — live papa ? 

It is a solemn, an awful mystery, this slipping away 
from before our eyes of one we have just now seen 
with us, as one like us — this slipping away into a 
something so unlike us ! 

Where is now my papa ? How is he ? Does he see 
us while we weep ? Is he sorry for us ? Is he one 
with us though apart from us ? Or does he pity us 
as angels pity ? If he is in Heaven he must be happy. 
No matter that we whom he loved are sorrowing — 
he must be happy. That is what we cannot under- 
stand ; but what we must believe without to under- 
stand. 

What adds to the poignancy of my sorrow is the 
thought that papa died without a loving word to me, 
— without, anything for me in that last moment with 
him. He kissed mamma, lie spoke tenderly to her ; 
she will have this to remember. But for me, the sobs 
will always come into my throat in thinking of papa. 


142 


FLORINE. 


I cannot make him take back the 1 hurt ’ — as I used 
to make mamma do. Death offers no consolation for 
what was left undone. This makes me vow never 
■to leave mamma — no, not for an hour — without a 
parting caress and a loving word from her. I know 
now how I can suffer, and I have a great fear of 
being hurt. Should mamma die as papa died — 
without a word for me — I should have suffering for 
the rest of my life. 

August 25. — Papa left the management of our 
affairs with Aubrey Willis. I am waiting to hear 
from him. I say ‘ // because 1 attend to everything. 
Mamma thinks only of her sorrow. 

As soon as I hear from Aubrey I will know whether 
we are to go to Switzerland — as we wished to do 
before we came here — or whether we must return 
home. 

Our bereavement will necessitate our withdrawal 
from society. This is the way I shall have my desire 
gratified — the desire for something to happen to 
oblige me to quit my frivolous life for an earnest one ! 
There is something cruelly derisive in the destiny 
that has brought about this wished for result in so 
terrible a way. Is life like this ? 

August 27. — Now that we shall no longer have poor 


FLORINE. 


143 


papa to make money for us, it will be only mamma’s 
money that must support us. Papa must have made 
an excellent investment of this money, as it seems it 
has been the payments from it that have made up 
the late delinquencies in papa’s income. 

Of course, now we shall only be able to live com- 
fortably ; and I should like to remain Abroad so long 
as mamma will be satisfied. When we return home we 
shall have to maintain our town house in a less sump- 
tuous manner. We shall rent our home in the country. 

My appearance in society — when I may again 
appear — may not be rare from caprice — it may be rare 
from necessity. Only a few months ago I was boast- 
ful of the contrary — my movements were to be regu- 
lated by my inclinations and my will. That is how 
little we know of ourselves ! 

I am beginning to know something of the feeble- 
ness of human life. Well, I must not complain. I 
must be brave. 

August 29. — I might be happy even now, were it 
not for mamma. I am so young, and life — a new life 
— is before me. I am curious to know what it will be, 
and how much I myself shall do in the making of it 
happy and useful. 

But the sight of mamma’s always sad face, the feel- 
ing that she suffers, perpetually suffers — this is worse 


144 : 


FLORINE. 


than to suffer myself. I would rather suffer myself 
— much rather. I love mamma as a mother must 
love her child. I am stronger than mamma, and I 
am taking care of her, and taking all care from her. 
I shall never love anyone so much and so unselfishly 
as I love my mother. 

August 31. — Mamma’s grief is dreadful. I under- 
stand now how dreadful it is. She has told me what 
it is : that nothing distracts her from the haunting, 
horrible belief that papa is damned. 

What can be worse than the pain of this suffering ? 
I no longer suffer for myself ; I suffer only that 
mamma suffers. 

Papa was a gambler. It was at a gaming-table 
that his sudden illness came upon him. He had 
lost heavily all the evening ; and he had shown — it 
was told us — a distressing anxiety to win. It was 
probably his failure to win that killed him. All 
this, in thinking of it, is agony to mamma. She had 
always a hope that some day papa would quit 
gambling. Death ends all hope. Poor mamma ! 

If papa is not in Heaven, where is he? I could 
never believe he is in Hell. He was not good like 
mamma, but he was good. God punishes for sin, 
but he rewards for good. Everybody loved papa. 
God must love one that everybody loves. 


FLORINE. 


145 


Papa was good to the poor. He was always kind, 
always unselfish. lie was good in every way. 
Gambling was the only very wrong thing he did. 
God is just. He punishes and lie rewards. He 
will not only punish papa for the one wrong thing he 
did ; He will also reward him for the many good 
things he did. If papa will have suffering for the 
one, he will also have enjoyment for the other. 

It is not thus we are taught to understand the 
Bible. But I do not think we quite understand the 
Bible. Anyway, this is how I think in thinking cf 
my papa ; and I wish mamma could think too like 
this. 

September 14. — We are in Germany ; in a modest 
boarding-house, where it costs very little to live. 

We are poor ; and we must begin at once to live 
as poor people. There is to be no gradual down- 
letting ; we are already down. The letter I was 
expecting from Aubrey Willis, gave me this delecta- 
ble surprise. 

There is nothing left of mamma’s money, that I 
counted upon — and that mamma still counts upon* 
It was the principal of that money that we have 
been living upon the last three years. We were 
using the last of it before we came Abroad. That 
was why papa came Abroad. That was why he 


146 


FLORINE. 


wanted to remain at Monte Carlo : he hoped to win 
enough of mtmey there to replace mamma’s without 
her knowing it. 

Our country house is not to be rented — as I 
thought it advisable to be. It is to be sold ; sold to 
pay our debts. We are still to have the town 
house — with a mortgage on it. Mr. Willis has 
rented it very well. We are to live on the income 
of this rent. 

I write all this without an oh or an ah to indicate 
that I have any other than an ordinary feeling 
about this villainous destruction of my hopes and 
happiness. It is that at present I have no other 
feeling than rage. If there is such a thing as feeling 
diabolical, I feel that way. I want to write in jerks.* 
I should like what I write to look as ugly and as 
combative as I feel. 

September 20. — To think that we are in Germany 
because we are obliged to be here, and not in 
Switzerland where we wished to be ! We came here 
because we are sure not to meet any one that we 
know. 

Aubrey’s letter assured me that our income would 
enable us to live only in the plainest way. We are 
living that way now. It seems like an ugly, a very 
ugly nightmare that we are living thus. However, 


FLORINE. 


147 


nothing was ever so real to me. And nothing was 
ever so new — so distressingly new. 

I have never had a conception of a life like 
this. We have always been rich. We have always 
spent much money — more, I know now, than 
richer families. Papa and Mamma and I, were 
equally wedded to luxury. We never thought of 
denying ourselves anything, no matter what it 
cost. And now I must do without everything that 
has made my life so enjoyable. I see that now. 
That is, I see that it was as much the good things I 
had to enjoy — things that money bought for me — as 
my sense to enjoy, that made n.y life so sweet. 

I expected to economize — but not like this. I had 
in my mind a sort of ideal economy. If I had 
vaguely expected to be poorer, I did not expect to 
be poor. If I was to quit the world of fashion, I had 
in my mind another way of quitting it. 

I suspect that everything is disagreeable to us that 
is not as we have arranged it in our minds to be and 
that if we are to practice self-denial, we would wish 
to choose our own form of it ; and if we are to suffer, 
we desire a special suffering to be apportioned to us. 

I have had nothing my way in this new arrange- 
ment of my life ; nothing — except the privilege to 
work, to write. 


148 


FLORINE. 


September 23. — Mamma does not even suspect how 
things are with us. I have told her, of course, that 
we are not as rich as we once were. She knew that 
before papa died — or suspected it. She knows that 
our town house is rented, because Aubrey advised it 
— as we are to remain Abroad. But she does not 
know the truth ; and she shall never know it. I 
would work like a galley-slave rather than let her 
know that her money is gone ; that through papa it 
is gone. 

If mamma was like I have always known her to be, 
I could not conceal our true condition from her. But 
mamma has changed. Has suffering exhausted her 
sensibility ? Or does she suffer so much that all she 
is is absorbed by her suffering? However it is, she 
is indifferent to the world about her. Nothing seems 
to interest her. In the arranging of our affairs she 
has implicit confidence in Aubrey Willis ; in the 
arrangements of our ^ immediate movements she 
depends upon me. In coming here I told her that 
for the present we must economize ; and she shows 
no surprise at the rudeness of this economy. 

September 24. — From my window I see women 
working as only men should work — or as men must 
work. What a dreadful existence, it seems to me, to 
work as the common working classes work ! To 


FLORINE. 


149 


plough, to dig, to hew ; to wash, to iron, to cook : 
tli is from morning to night and from year to year, 
till they are laid in the ground. 

This is however a useful life. We who do not 
work like this, could not get along without these 
workers. We are dependent upon the cook, the 
washer-women, the porter — upon all of the working 
kind. We should be miserable without the service 
of the humblest of these. What they accomplish 
helps us to be comfortable and to be happy ; these 
often help us to be good. The wisest, the wealthiest, 
the greatest of human beings do no more than this. 

I suspect there are among the humblest of these 
workers some who are happier than many of us. For 
contentment knows no station. A contented being 
is one that makes the best of every position. He 
extracts happiness even from unhappiness. 

I should like to be contented. I am almost always 
pleased with myself ; so that I have a certain satis- 
faction even in my present misery. But I am not 
pleased with what is about me, so that my small con- 
tent is likely at any moment to be effaced by a large 
discontent. 

September 25. — There, below my window, in the 
sunlight, I see a mother hen with her ten chicklings. 
Little, busy things — busy at nothing ; for they fuss, 


150 


FLORINE. 


and hurry, and pick — in imitation of their mother — 
without accomplishing anything. 

Is anything in the whole world prettier than these 
little, yellow, fluffy balls of chickens ! I could watch 
them for hours, contented as they. This animal con- 
tent is sometimes delicious. It is the content that 
any one, who is healthful in body and senses, can 
enjoy. 

October 4. — I am not useful in a practical way. I 
jive only for myself ; for I love mamma so much, 
that in living for her I am still only living for myself. 

Well, is not this perfecting of one’s self another 
way of being useful ? The good in me that results 
from the pleasing of myself, does it not go out imper- 
ceptibly to those about me ? — as the perfume from 
the unseen flower ; as the influence of a pure 
thought. 

I have always been loved by the common people. 
In our country home I used to go among them in 
my dainty frocks and ribbons, smiling upon them, 
chatting with them. “A bit o’ sunshine,” or, “A 
summer rose,” they called me, in talking about me. 
That was pretty. I was only as a butterfly flutter- 
ing about them, to be admired by them; but I 
seemed to please them and to gladden them. So that 
I think that people feel my good, if they do not see it, 


FLORINE. 


151 


and do not know precisely what it is. I like to 
believe this, at least. It is a comfort to me. 

October 13. — The cooking is execrable. I never 
imagined such unpalatable mixtures would be eaten 
by anybody. Yet most of the people here eat as 
though none but savory morsels were set before them. 

What is one like me to do ? To be born with an 
exquisite taste, with an exquisite sense of the deli- 
cious and the dainty, and to have had that taste and 
sense cultivated and indulged to the highest degree 
— then suddenly to be deprived of all that is dainty 
and delicious ! No one can understand the torment 
of this deprivation who has not undergone it. 

I love only certain morsels of certain things to 
eat. I enjoy them only when cooked in a perfect 
manner. Hunger does not make my taste less 
exacting. What I eat is not only a necessity to 
maintain life ; it is a necessity to render it useful, 
enjoyable — livable. It is not simply my taste that 
desires dainty nourishment ; it is a natural con- 
dition of my stomach that demands only delicate 
food. The truth is, if I cannot each day have the 
food I like, and cooked as I like it, that day is spoiled 
for me. My physical comfort is disarranged ; that 
affects my humor — which in its ill turn affects my 
mental and spiritual temper. 


152 


FLORINE. 


Were mamma to feel this as I do — as she would do 
were she as she once was — I could not bear this 
change in our living ; that is, I could not appear to 
bear it as I do now. But mamma is as indifferent to 
her food as she is indifferent to everything. I am sure 
her sensibility is deadened — that much suffering has 
deadened it. 

How sad it would be for me to feel like that ! 
That is, not to feel as I do now — not to be able to 
enjoy. I must not forget this. However, of what 
good is it to be able to enjoy when one has nothing 
to enjoy ? But, I may again have much to enjoy — 
neither must I forget this. 

October 18. — I hate poverty — I hateit ! This is the 
truth : I shall never resign myself to it. It is not 
good for me. I am not of the kind that is made 
better by it. My prayers now are all petitions — 
beggings for good things that only money can get 
for me. 

Others who are less dainty in their tastes and 
their habits would bear it better. They would 
be thankful for the health that I enjoy. But health 
does not seem so great a blessing — now that I am 
poor. It makes my senses more keen for what I 
have not. 

I do not want only the things that are served to 


FLORINE. 


153 


me to be fine ; I want the service also to be of the 
finest. 

And what shall I do when my present wardrobe is 
exhausted ? From my hats to my shoes everything 
must be exquisite. Exquisite things cost money — 
much money. 

It is like this for everything I desire. I am obliged 
to stop in my thoughts and my plans to say, “ Flo- 
rine, you will not be able to have that,” or “ You will 
not be able to do that ; you will have no money.” 

Money ! money ! money ! What a shame that we 
are dependent upon it ! Only the healthy beggar is 
not dependent upon it. He has the universe for 
himself. He can walk without money. He can get 
clothes without money. He can get water and 
bread and meat without money. He can sleep under 
the sky in summer, and in barns while it is winter — 
without money. It is better to be a born beggar, 
than a born poor aristocrat whose pride will not per- 
mit him to accept favors, and who would rather not 
live at all than poorly live. 

Many women will do any work, no matter how 
menial, in order to earn money. Many proud and 
good women work like this. 

I suppose I am neither proud nor good in the 
same way ; and I am not self-denying enough. 

What could I do that would not place me near the 


154 


FLORINE. 


people I never wish to approach ? To be spoken to 
in a familiar way — as of one kin ; I could not bear 
that. I could bear even less to be spoken to in a 
patronizing way by my inferiors — the rich inferiors 
in whose employment I should be. 

I hate the sight and the touch and the breath of 
the common element. I hate the odor of garments 
that are not changed every day, and of bodies that 
are not bathed every day. This is why I never ride 
in a street car or an omnibus, or an elevated railway 
car. 

Do you think this is the feeling that tyrants are 
made of ? I assure you it is not so. I am not one — 
that had they the chance — the Communists would 
stone to death. Because, my aristocracy is of the 
senses only ; it is not of the heart. It is an aris- 
tocracy that is not seen ; it is one that is felt. The 
people wopld understand this ; and then — if 1 like to 
keep my gowns apart from them, I also like to give 
my smiles to them, and to scatter my blessings upon 
them. 

October 30. — I have just received a letter from New 
York — from an editor of a popular magazine. He 
asks me if I will write a series of short stories for 
him such as I wrote two years ago. He says he will 


FLORINE. 


155 


pay me ‘ liberally ’ for every story as soon as it is 
received. 

Please take note of this, my daughter : that this is 
one of the editors that once refused one of my poems ; 
an editor I had promised myself to snub. Do you 
see? this is how little we know of ourselves. Because, 
with all my fine talking in the past, I would not dare 
to write this editor a high-sounding letter — declin- 
ing his offer with ‘ thanks.’ 

The truth is, I am for the present this editor’s ser- 
vant ; and I am glad to do his service. His letter 
has sent my courage and my enthusiasm once more 
to the top of the barometer. 

What have I been thinking of not to have thought 
of this ? It is, that having no need of money when I 
wrote, and never having received any for what I had 
written, it never occurred to me to demand it. What 
I wrote I offered as a gift to the public ; and I offered 
it more to please myself than to please the public. 

But this is my way to be useful. This is my work 
— a work that I love. How stupid I have been ! I 
am ashamed of myself. Any one else, knowing me, 
would have thought at once of this — that this letter 
has only now made me think of ! 

Sensible people are never ashamed of doing what 
is their legitimate right to do — what is God’s given 
gift to them to do. One’s own gift, one’s own talent, 


156 


FLORINE. 


one’s own fad idealizes itself. The worker obliter- 
ates himself in his work. It is only the work of 
other workers that is displeasing to us. Nature 
kindly permits this blindness to us. 

November 14. — Mamma is ill. In my anxiety about 
her I entirely forget myself. 

However, the doctor assures me that mamma will 
not die ; and that sometimes after a severe illness — 
that has been the result of grief — a return to health 
brings with it a return to cheerfulness. This hope 
sustains me. 


FLORINE. 


157 


1877 


Ja?iuary 17. — Mamma is getting better slowly. 
When I am not caring for her, and when she does 
not wish me to talk to her — I write. 

Poor mamma! there are many hours when she 
does not wish me to talk to her. She does not look 
so sorrowful in these days, but she is very quiet ; 
and even I dare not intrude upon this quiet. 

February 20. — I am at work. There is nothing 
like work to scatter the vapors. I am writing only 
to make money ; that is why I call it work. To 
make money for mamma and me — money to help us 
to live. 

My stories have a freshness that takes with the 
public — so the editor that writes to me for more, 
says. 

But at present I write too rapidly to write well. I 
have the feeling that what I write is not worthy of 
my talent ; I am sure it is not. This gives me a 
vague distress. I seem to offend something within 
me — something loftier, more divine than myself. I 
congratulate myself for the success of what I have 
written ; but I do not think highly of myself. You 


158 


FLORINE. 


see now why I am not quite miserable — and why I 
am not quite happy. 

Well, for the present this state of things must be ; 
so I shall not let my artistic conscience trouble 
me too much. I will permit my common sense to 
encourage me. It is something tO r know that I 
need not be helped by others. If I were helpless I 
should be wholly unhappy. That is how I was 
before I thought of writing for money. To be hope- 
ful in misfortune one must always look at the bad 
comparatively — that is, of what it might be of 
worse. 

I have just now thought of something. Like 
Jean Teterol — I have ‘an idea.’ I shall go now and 
talk to mamma about it. 

March 1 6. — We are in Switzerland. “This was 
‘my idea’ — to come here. I could not endure 
Germany. The little extra money I shall earn will 
enable us to live here. It is not much more expen- 
sive than that odious boarding-house in Germany — 
and such a change from it ! 

This pension is very modest, very rustic ; but so 
clean and so fresh. And the air is pure and sweet. 

We get a great deal for a little money. I mean 
that here we get very good things at a cheap rate ; 
while in Germany, at the same rate, we get very 


FLORINE. 


150 


bad. The cooking* is French — that means it is 
good. 

Aubrey Willis has arranged our affairs with much 
delicacy and much tact. No one knows we are 
poor. That takes away half the pain of poverty. 
So long as we are here I shall hardly know that we 
are poor ; and we are going to stay here for six 
months — or, as long as we may wish to stay. 

April 5. — Writing as a business, as a life work, is 
more serious than writing by moods, and only to 
please one’s self. 

Nothing uncommon is produced with common 
effort. To work in earnest exacts certain sacrifices 
of one’s personal enjoyment. Lately I am making 
these sacrifices. I deserve my self-respect ; for there 
are great temptations to one like me not to make these 
sacrifices. I am fond of doing only what I please to 
do and at the times it pleases me. I love liberty, I 
love idleness ; I love movement in the daytime, and 
I love sleep at night. To write seriously, to write 
enthusiastically, to write well — one cannot do this, 
one cannot enjoy perfectly any of these. One must 
think all the time, and one must work most of the 
time. 

And I am writing now in earnest. I work harder 
and accomplish less ; that is, I write less in quantity ; 


160 


FLORINE. 


but what I write is good. I have had to stop my 
frivolous galloping, in order to be happy. I could 
no longer endure the reproaches of my artistic con- 
science. I shall earn less money, but I shall have 
more content. 

I am writing now a story that I feel. The others 
that I have written are products of the imagination 
only ; words without feeling — without a soul. This 
k> a simple story of peasant life. The heroine her- 
self told it to me. It happened when she was young ; 
she is an old woman now. 

I do not cry easily ; but as the peasant woman told 
this story it brought tears to my eyes. When others 
read it as I shall tell it, it will bring tears to their 
eyes. 

I am going to send it to Harper s Magazine. 
Since the refusal of my first poem I have never had 
the courage to offer anything to this magazine. But 
this story is good — Harper s will see it is good. 

But do not think that in my zeal I no longer think 
of myself ! Do not imagine that I forget to be pru- 
dent ! I fear I shall never be great so long as I con- 
tinue to be so vain. But this is the truth : I would 
not sacrifice either my beauty or my health for fame. 

Vanity for my little person is the strongest force 
in me. It dominates all other passions and ambi- 
tions. If I eat little, and never while I write — no 


FLORINE. 


1G1 


matter how long the fast — it is not only that I may 
write with greater facility, but that I may preserve 
my health : that while the brain works the stomach 
may rest. 

All brain-workers are dyspeptics. I am resolute 
not to be one. I write with the outer air about me. 
I stop writing at once , when my body and brain are 
tired. I expect to lose flesh — I am losing it ; but it 
is something that I can easily get back. In truth I 
look well. 

My daughter, do you know it will take much 
humbling and much grace to make me what your 
grandmother has always been — a woman who thinks 
little of herself. 

However, there is as much good as weakness in 
this care of myself. If every individual would care 
as much for himself and herself, all individuals 
would be better preserved. But many individuals 
are not worth preserving — indeed, they had better 
not be preserved. So what I have written goes for 
only half its value. 

I know a girl who has perfect bare feet. Dumas 
says a perfect bare foot is the rarest beauty. This 
girl is as vain of her feet as I am of my entire self. 
She takes even more care of her feet than her hands. 
When the fashion is for short gowns, she orders hers 
a trifle shorter. She promenades the beach and the 


102 


FLORINE. 


hotel verandas in costumes to show her feet. She 
bathes without sandals, she swims without them, 
that others may have a glimpse of her bare feet. 

Of course she is talked about. But every woman 
has some charm to be vain of, and which she thinks 
of and admires to herself, as I write about and 
admire myself. 

April 12. — Since chatting with the peasant woman 
I like the working people. That is, I like the poetry 
of them. However, the peasants in their picturesque 
costumes have an uncommon air. In looking at 
them, even in talking to them, one still holds to a 
fringe of the ideal. 

Are people and things what they are , or what 
they seem to us ? And do I really feel a larger sense 
of human kindness towards these people, in going 
among them ? — or is it only that I am interested in 
them and curious about them because I can make 
use of my knowledge of them, because, such as 
they are, they are of service to me ? 

I find that what seems pure goodness in me, 
rarely stands the test of my own analysis ; and that 
I find without much seeking the seeds of self-interest. 
Will it ever be thus ? Shall I never be able to 
declare my motives wholly unselfish ? 


FLORINE. 


163 


May 1 6. — We have two pleasant rooms. I have 
changed the large-patterned, sombre-colored paper 
on the walls for a ravishing French paper in light 
and delicate coloring. I have matting, and bright 
rugs on the floor. My windows are draped in a soft, 
filmy, daintily tinted stuff, that gives a very pretty 
effect. There is a hanging book-case on the wall, 
filled with my favorite books. There is a sofa of 
my own arranging, and several easy chairs. Photo- 
graphs, tied with ribbons, are grouped upon the 
wall. Outside, there are the ceaseless songs of birds 
and the perpetual sight and perfume of flowers. 
Everywhere there is that restfulness that is no- 
where as it is in Switzerland. So you see, my daugh- 
ter, that I have enough to make me contented here 
for one summer. 

There is something else ; mamma, I am sure, is 
glad to be here. She seems almost happy. She is 
very gentle, very sweet, and as quiet as the quiet- 
ness about her. Whatever has come to her, has 
come from God. Resignation that is not martyrdom 
comes only from Heaven. 

June i. — The weeks go round very fast. Time 
never flies when one is miserable. How is it, 
Florine, that you are not miserable — that you are 
almost happy? The real of your life is, however, 


164 : 


FLORINE. 


very real — and this is what it is : you have no papa. 
You are no longer rich ; you are poor. The world 
of fashion goes on without you ; and it will keep 
going on without you. Tiiere is nothing in the 
future for you — that you can see — of the splendor, 
the ease, the undisturbedness, the independence — 
nothing of anything that was of the old life. And 
yet you are not miserable ! 

I suspect this is how it is : you have a happy dis- 
position ; and once the froth of grumbling is blown 
off, the natural gayety bubbles up. You have also a 
healthy body. You suffer much ; but once the heal- 
ing begins you heal quickly. 

I suspect, too, that for the present you have lost 
sight of all that has happened to you. You are com- 
fortable ; and comfort is always a large part of your 
enjoyment. You enjoy what you have to enjoy, and 
imagination helps your content. One can idealize 
even misery that is yet in the abstract. 

June 4. — I love my mother more than anything or 
anybody in the whole world. Is she still beautiful — 
or is it that she cannot be other than beautiful to 
me? I am too critical to be blinded even by love ; 
my mother is beautiful. That is one reason why I 
am always not only loving her, but in love with her. 
I am coquettish with her, in these days, more than I 


FLORINE. 


165 


am with myself. I arrange her hair in many ways. 
I try the effect of drapery upon her. I love her ! I 
love her ! and, best of all, she knows that I love her. 
I make her feel how I love her. 

My daughter, I should be very happy if one day 
you would love me thus. But daughters do not 
often love their mothers like this ; on the contrary, 
it is like this that mothers often love their 
daughters. 

I am truly unselfish with my mother. I can say 
this after the closest scrutiny of myself. I would 
suffer anything to save her from pain. I would 
deny myself anything to give lier happiness. 

I love my individual comfort — what I eat, how I 
sleep, what I wear, and the neatness of all about 
me ; but I would willingly sacrifice my enjoyment 
of any of these, to add to my mother’s enjoyment. 

I know a girl who is thus self-denying for every 
one that comes within the range of even her friend- 
liness. She never thinks of herself. It never occurs 
to her to take the best of anything, if there is a pos- 
sibility of her finding — even if she is obliged to 
search — some one else to take it. This constant 
self-denial, this always givingup to others, is a part 
of her life. 

And, do you know that it is such a regulation 
thing, that it is not appreciated ? Everybody 


166 


FLORINE. 


expects it, and accepts it as a matter of course — as 
due to them, and not as a favor to them : so 
ungrateful is the human heart. While, should I 
make ever so little a sacrifice for these same indi- 
viduals, they would make much of it. 

It is well that God is the judge of our actions, and 
not man. 

June 15. — I am going to write a book ; and I shall 
begin at once to write it. I shall write no more 
trash. No matter what comes from it — or rather, 
what not comes from it — I shall write conscientiously. 
I shall not leave a page or a sentence till I am satisfied 
with it ; and I shall only be satisfied when I have 
made it the best that I can make it. 

I shall create my own style : and I am hoping it 
will be a good style. I shall know first what I wish 
to express, and I shall express it in the shortest way 
possible. 

I am of the opinion that no writer can acquire a 
beauty of style, or a correctness of style that has not 
within him an ever present sense of the beautiful and 
the harmonious. Words and expressions arecolors and 
melodies. An ill word, an awkward sentence — these 
offend the good taste as an ill assortment of colors 
offends it. I shall want an air of truth in what I 
write. And I shall want to make use of the heart as 


FLORINE. 


167 


well as of the reason. I shall wish to express a 
strong meaning in a delicate way ; and a delicate 
meaning in a strong way. 

However, we shall see, Florine, what, with all your 
fine talking, you will be able to do. 

August 12. — Life does not seem real to me. I eat 
and sleep and talk and act from habit only. For the 
first time in my life my actual comfort or discomfort 
is indifferent to me. 

Sometimes I open and shut my eyes as if to arouse 
myself from .my actual life — that seems to be a 
dream — so real the imaginative existence has become. 
I enjoy with the enjoyment of my heroine ; I suffer 
with her suffering. And to my temperament the 
enjoyment is ecstasy, the suffering torment. 

This extreme feeling must be devastating. It is 
as were I constantly drinking wine ; and I suppose I 
shall one day feel all the misery of the sobering. 
Well, no matter ; I shall give myself time to sober — 
when I am done. For the present let me write — 
write — write ! 

September 30. — My story of peasant life is in the last 
number of Harper s. You see, I was right, and that 
I know myself what is excellent — what is worthy of 


me. 


168 


FLORINE. 


I have received a letter from Mr. Bryant. He 
says : 

“ I like that little story. It is the simplest of 
episodes, the most ordinary pathos, from which you 
have taken the story ; but one feels that the episode 
was real — hence the pathos becomes ideal. Write 
always like that, and you will one day be grateful to 
yourself. ” 


FLORINE. 


169 


1878 . 


January 3. — You see I have written nothing in my 
Journal. I have had nothing to write. My thoughts, 
my enthusiasm — everything that I am, has been 
absorbed by my book. I have worked constantly at 
it — day and night I have worked at it. And I must 
do myself the justice to say, that I have had no 
selfish and no mercenary motives while writing it. 
Now that it is done I am satisfied with it. I have 
made it as good as I can make it. 

My daughter, many would say this satisfaction is 
sovereign egotism — the blindest of blind loving of 
one’s self. But I know what I am saying. I do no 
slatternly work. I do not mean to say my book is as 
good as any other body’s book ; I mean that it is as 
good as I can make it ; that if I am going to offer 
something to the public, I must myself be satisfied 
with it ; that I can be sure if I am not satisfied, 
others will not be. 

Now that the book is done I no longer look upon 
it as my own creation — I am astonished to think that 
it is. This makes me an impartial critic. 


170 


FLORINE. 


January 7. — Now that the divine flame is 
exhausted, my thoughts revolve about my worldly 
self. There are times when I am in a fever of excite- 
ment over the imaginary delights of an imaginary 
success. I see myself looked at in the street, at the 
opera — everywhere — not as one ‘in society,’ but as 
the ‘ author of that book.’ 

People who have not known me look at me 
critically — expecting to see the usual type of a blue 
stocking. I enjoy their surprise. They have no 
fault to find with my hat, or with my gown — or with 
any part of my dress. It — my dress — -is always 
Charming in its simplicity and its color, and elegant 
in its effect. And there is no awkwardness of manner 
and of movement, common to those for whom dis- 
tinction is an event, and not a natural heritage. It 
is the ease of a well-bred individual who recognizes 
and is grateful for a universal appreciation, who is 
not elated by it. 

Florine ! Florine ! that will do for the imagina- 
tion ! But the truth is you are elated at even the 
thought of success. You are delirious with hope. 
You expect everything. 

And if this success should not come — what then ? 
Let any one see me now ; with these cold, clammy 
drops upon my forehead, this pallor, as of a mortal 
illness ! Let any one feel this dreadful choking in 


FLORINE. 


171 


my throat, this heavy throbbing of my heart — and 
tell me what an actual -failure will bring for me, 
when the fear of it has brought all this for me ! 

Oh God ! I could not bear it ! It would break 
my heart — it would break my heart ! 

And think how many there are all over the world 
who have just now written a book, who have just 
now painted a picture, who have just now modelled 
a statue, who have just now finished an invention ! 
And these all are thinking as I think, and feeling as 
I feel ! 

March 15. — We have been in New York since the 
first of February. It seems very strange to be liv- 
ing here as we are living now. 

They have made a first-class boarding-house of 
our home, and we have taken rooms in it. Just 
think, my daughter, of my life now and what it was 
one year ago ! Think of all my high-sounding talk 
of what I was going to do on my return from Abroad 
— of what I should please to do ! Well, this is how 
I tnust do. 

However, no one suspects our poverty. It is 
understood that we are here now on account of 
business, and that we expect to return Abroad. Our 
bereavement and mamma’s delicate health are suf- 


172 


FLORINE. 


ficient reasons for our quiet and modest way of 
living. 

My book is no longer mine — it belongs to the 
public. For weeks before its publication I was in 
torment ; and now that it is published this torment 
is something to flee from. 

I no longer feel elated, I no longer imagine myself 
triumphant. I suffer so much in my dread of what 
I may yet suffer by a failure, that there is no room 
in my imaginings for the antics of hope. 

To be just to myself, I must say that vanity has at 
present no part in my fear. I have risen above 
vanity — suddenly risen above it. I simply desire 
the book to be appreciated for its worth ; the author 
of it is, for once, of no account to me. 

I have a mortal terror of the reviews and the 
criticisms. A terror lest they be anything but what 
I should wish them to be. And what if there should 
be no reviews and no criticisms ? That would be 
infinitely worse than the worst criticism. But no 
matter what the opinion may be — if it is not what I 
desire it to be, I shall suffer. And there is only one 
chance among many chances that it will be as I wish 
it to be. 

Heaven knows, that had I foreseen this martyrdom, 
I should never have had the courage to write a book ! 
No one but God, and the beings as sensitive as I am 


FLORINE. 


173 


—who have offered a book, or a picture, or any 
object upon which and into which they have 
wrought their flesh, and blood, and nerve, and life, 
to the pitiless dissection of the public — will know 
what I suffer. I am physically a coward ; but 
I declare that I should rather have my flesh torn 
here and there, than to suffer this constant tearing of 
the sensibility that I now suffer. 

March 1 6. — O God, dear, loving God, do not let 
me suffer more through this book ! Do not let it be 
a failure — do not ! do not ! Let me feel happy over 
this first book — to encourage me, let me feel happy ! 
Thou knowest, God, that I prayed to Thee daily, 
hourly, for Thy help to write it — to write it, as it 
were, with Thee ! It is good — I feel that it is good ! 
Make others feel also that it is good ! Let me be 
happy through this book ! If I am to be miserable 
through it, I can never have courage to make use of 
the gift Thou hast given me ! O God, be good to 
me — be good to me ! 

I pray like this all the time. I shall nevertell my 
troubles to any one but God — and you, my daugh- 
ter. 

March 30. — Do you think that any one suspects 
my suffering ? No indeed ! I see a great many 


174 


FLORINE. 


people, and all of them say something about my 
book. The very correct are not in haste to con- 
gratulate me ; they wish to avoid the appearance 
of flattery. I should be like that ; but I feel 
like striking them for the torture their slowness 
inflicts upon me. And at the same time I appear to 
be very ingenious in ways to keep them from speak- 
ing of my book. When they do speak, I must seem 
to them either eccentric or frivolous in my apparent 
indifference. To those who impress me as liking die 
book simply because others say it is good, or for any 
reason not quite pleasing to me, my thanks express 
more of irony than pleasure. To those whose praise 
is a sincere appreciation of it, I say nothing ; for 
the simple reason that I am afraid of crying out- 
right in my gladness about it ; but my silence is 
taken, I suppose, for anything but what it is. When 
any one says frankly what he does not like about it, 
I laugh good-naturedly, but I have a feeling of 
momentary hatred for the individual, and when I 
am alone 1 cry myself sick. 

April ir. — When a friend hands me a criticism 
that is very good, or that is very bad, I receive the 
one, or the other, with a smile that convinces him of 
my absolute indifference. But I am in heaven, or 
in hell, as the case may be ; and I talk to my friend 


FLORINE. 


175 


like a machine that within is wholly out of order, 
but that on the outside goes on in an automatic 
way. 

No one sees me look over the budget of news- 
papers my publisher sends to me. I shut myself in 
my room, when I receive them, and I keep them 
before me for a while, the dreadful clamminess on 
my forehead, and my whole being tortured with the 
fear of the pain that may be in store for me. 

If I find that the criticisms are good, I fall on my 
knees, and I thank God. I tell Him I love Him ; 
that I want to be good ; that I want Him to make 
me good for His goodness to me : and then I walk 
the floor gesticulating, laughing, crying. Should I 
see another girl act in this way, I should feel it my 
duty to commend her to the Asylum for ‘treat- 
ment.’ 

But, are the criticisms adverse, I feel the tugging 
at my heart-strings that is so horrible ; and I cry 
till I am exhausted. 

April 20. — Never, never, never, wdll I write another 
book, if I am to keep on suffering like this ! 

People congratulate me on my ‘ success.’ They 
think I am ve^ fortunate to have my ‘first book ' 
so finely noticed by the critics. Why am I so 
sensitive about this book ? For it is true that ten 


176 


FLORINE. 


criticisms are satisfactory where five are not. But 
these five spoil my content with the ten. I suppose 
that I want everything good ; and that I want no 
room for unhappiness. 

There is one opinion that would satisfy me ; an 
opinion by which I should stand or fall ; an opinion 
that would make me finally happy or finally miser- 
able — and this opinion does not come : 

That is what grieves me most. 

April 22. — I am growing very nervous. Small 
noises seem explosions that make confusion of my 
thoughts, and distress to my nerves. I cannot bear 
the least disarrangement of the domestic routine 
about me. The voices, the movements, the presence 
of certain people distress me. 

You see that I have been abusing my health. 
One can never do this with impunity ; and I resolved, 
long ago, to preserve my health. So I will — once 
this book business is over. 

Api'il 25. — People think I am indifferent to the 
good or the ill said about my book. This is how 
true that is ; yesterday the servant girl who takes 
care of our rooms said : 

“I’ve read your book, Miss, and I think it the 
most beautiful book I ever read. The love part was 


FLORINF. 


177 


so tender like, it went straight to my heart ; and I 
just cried myself to sleep a-thinking of it. I never 
shall forget that book, Miss — never !” 

Do you know that I felt like hugging that poor 
servant girl ? And although she was unusually 
stupid all day — from staying up late to read my 
book — I was very sweet to her. 

This morning I had a workman to fix the lock of 
my door. When he was done, he said, with an 
humble air, twirling his hat in his hand : 

“ I hope you won’t mind my tellin’ you, Miss, that 
I’ve read your book — seein’ I had heard it was a 
very good book. It’s very interestin’, very. I sat 
up most o’ the night to read it — got a-goin’ and 
couldn’t stop. But, beggin’ your pardon, Miss, the 
love part don’t seem natural like. The love part 
left out, Miss, it’s a very good book.” 

The * love part left out ’ ? One might as well think 
one is paying my figure a fine compliment, in saying 
of my gown — when I am not inside of it — “ That is 
a very handsome gown.” 

I shall never again have that man do anything for 
me. Think of it — that I must feel like this ! I 
would rather do anything than write a book 


April 28. — Oh ! oh ! oh ! Each of these ohs is 


178 


FLORINE. 


like that which follows each slipping off of the 
instrument in the extraction of an aching tooth. 

This is what it is all about. A man that was 
papa’s friend, a clear-sighted, critical man, a man 
with a fine sense of humor, a man, in short 
whose opinion I value, said of my book — said it to 
me : 

“ It is beautifully written ; the reasoning is subtle; 
it is not an ordinary book ; but there is a great deal 
of bosh and gush in it.” 

I cannot get over that opinion. He is a man of 
good taste, and I feel like hating him. 

I might as well tell you the whole truth ; that 

this is Mr. L , the man that once made love to 

me — or that wanted to marry me without making 
love. Everything is ‘bosh’ and ‘gusli’ for him — 
that he has not handled, or cannot handle in actual 
flesh. Knowing this, this particular criticism ought 
not to trouble me. But it does trouble me. 

i 

April 30. — To-day I feel myself the victim of an 
ingenious torture — a machine that turns as I turn ; 
and with every turn leaves me with the impression 
of numberless stinging points. 

A review of my book by a prominent Western 
paper has done this. It is not a criticism, it is a 
calumny. It has all the vindictiveness of a personal 


FLORINE. 


170 


attack. I am sure it is a personal attack. So I write 
the editor a long letter— a letter that would melt the 
heart of a stone. 


May 6. — The editor of the Western paper must 
have thought my letter very clever or very pitiful; 
as he has taken the trouble to write to me. He is 
not responsible for that review, he says ; it was a 
handed in, paid for review ; he thought I might 
have had it done myself — as in his opinion it was an 
admirable review to help the sale of the book. 

All this, my daughter, is the delectable?iess of writ- 
ing a book. 

May 9. — I have received a letter from a friend that 
I esteem, and whose opinion I value. She says 
everything good 0/ the book it deserves ; but she 
also says ill of it. She says there is a vein of bad- 
ness in the book — a vein so fine, so delicate, so 
exquisite, that few would see it ; they would only 
feel the deadly sweetness flowing through it. She 
says that the subtlety of its badness makes it the 
worst badness. 

I am shocked ; I am profoundly hurt that my 
friend should so misconstrue my reasoning, and fail 
to perceive its moral : so I write her a long letter. 
I tell her of my daily praying to God to make the 


180 


FLORINE. 


book healthful. I call her attention to the fact that 
I punish the wrong doers. I assure her I am aston- 
ished that she — that any pure-minded individual 
should discover evil in what was intended to be only 
good. And I burn with indignation while writing 
this letter. I burn with zeal in my desire to convince 
my friend that she is entirely wrong and that I am 
entirely right. 

But my friend is right, to a certain degree ; in 
thinking of it, I know she is right. The book was 
honestly intended to be good ; but I see that it is 
possible to construe from it bad. Writers have need 
to look to themselves. In their imaginings they may 
succeed, without being aware of it, in idealizing 
evil. 

May ii. — I have had another offer of marriage. 
The man is not rich*— neither is he poor. Of course 
he thinks I am rich. But it is not for my wealth he 
would marry me. No ; he has a career before him ; 
he has talent, he is brilliant, he is ambitious — and he 
wants to get into society. He wants a home, and he 
wants me as the ornament of that home. 

He is supremely selfish. In asking me to be his 
wife, he was aware that I did not love him. He 
even hinted that in making this sacrifice of myself — 
to marry him without loving him — I should enjoy a 


FLORINE. 


181 


certain satisfaction ; the satisfaction of giving eclat 
to his name, and distinction to. his talent. He was 
surprised that I was not eager to make that sacrifice; 
and he was enraged when I declined to make it. 

Do I think at all of marrying? No. Now that I 
am no longer rich, I am too proud to marry a rich 
man, even should I love him ; and I am too poor to 
marry a poor man. 

May 12. — We are very poor at present. Should 
the world of society — our world — have a suspicion of 
the truth, it would deal graciously with us. For it 
is with this huge social phalanx as with the indi- 
vidual family — blood will tell. And once its mem- 
bers know that- one of their kind is in the shadow of 
misfortune, they are generous in their sympathy and 
attention. 

It is understood, without saying it, that this mis- 
fortune is to be kept as much as possible under the 
wings of this society. Invitations are sent, and 
favors are shown, with a delicacy and tact that can- 
not offend. They seem to be offered ; they never 
seem to be bestowed. 

But I would rather die than avail myself of this 
sympathy and this generosity. Self love is a large 
part of my individual courage. The fact that no 
one knows my misery, is the one thing that helps me 


182 


FLORINE. 


to appear to bear it. It would help me really to bear 
it were it not for mamma. 

But what should I do if every one knew the truth ? 
I do not want to think of it ; it makes a sickening 
emotion all over me. I could never understand how 
some people find comfort in telling others their 
miseries and their misfortunes ; their natural weak- 
nesses and their physical suffering. I make it a 
point to conceal mine. I have not a friend who does 
not congratulate me on my ‘ good luck * — so well do 
I keep my failures to myself. Others envy my light- 
heartedness and my content — so entirely do I hide 
my disappointments and an immense ambition. 

May 15. — Mamma begins to interest herself in 
what is going on around her, and her wants are not so 
easily satisfied. Lately I have had to invent reasons 
and excuses without number for our modest living — 
that begins to appear extraordinary to her. 

I have been hoping for something to happen — a 
miracle perhaps — that I might not have to tell her 
the truth. But nothing does happen — but facts that 
make the situation more embarrassing. 

Mamma will never again be the society woman 
she was. It is with the gay world, for her, as with 
her food — it has lost its savor. But as the time 


FLORINE. 


183 


draws nearer when I shall be expected to return to 
it, I ask myself what I shall do. 

Yesterday mamma said I was getting to be a real 
‘blue stocking ’ — what papa never wanted me to be. 
And she spoke of my return to social life in the 
coming Autumn ; of our securing a season box for 
the Opera ; of my wardrobe — of everything that I 
must not think of, and that fills me with consterna- 
tion to know that she is thinking of. 

What do }'ou think [ said in reply ? This : that I 
am a * blue stocking that I love this quiet, modest 
living ; that I am tired of the old gay life, and that 
I had not yet enough of this new life. I said that 
to live thus was my caprice — a desire to be thought 
eccentric. I said everything that was not true ; that 
was not like me, and that astonished mamma; and 
then I went to my room and cried till my heart was 
sore. 

May 18. — At last I am happy ; at last I am content. 
No matter what success my friends have credited 
me with, I have been as miserable as one need be. 

But all this misery is past. Do you know why ? 
Mr. Bryant has just been here. It was his coming, 
and his opinion that I waited for. It was whatever 
he should say of good or of ill, that was to make me 
finally happy or unhappy. That he did not come I 


184 


FLORINE. 


took as a proof of his displeasure. But lie lias been 
here at last — he has been here the whole of the after- 
noon. 

“ Well ?” 

I had such a fear in my heart that I said that one 
word only, with a half sob and a big interrogation 
point. 

“ Well ?” he echoed, smiling ; “ the book is worthy 
of you. It is what I expected of you. It is not a book 
to please everybody. It is a bit of Sevres china — and 
most people are pleased with common pottery. I 
have never read anything prettier than some of its 
pages — pages that I have read over and over. What ! 
Are you crying ?” 

It was more than crying. It was the convulsive out- 
pouring of weeks of suppressed agitation and distress. 

“ You were so long coming — I thought — I thought 
— you pitied me too much to tell — to tell me you 
were disappointed in — in my book !” 

I jerked this paragraph hysterically from between 
my sobs. 

“ Poor child ! poor child !” he murmured, laying 
both his hands on my bowed head. “I pity you — 
from my soul I pity you, for what you will some 
time suffer ! Oh, how you will suffer! Suffering is 
the price for a nature like yours. You feel too much 
— too much. As for your book, you ought to have 


FLORINE. 


185 


known I should like it. It has faults, of course ; but 
the faults — ” 

“ Don’t ! don’t say a word more, Mr. Bryant ! I 
am too happy ! Please keep the faults for another 
time. I want to think of this hour as long as I live. 
I want to set it apart.” 

“ But the faults,” he added, with a smile ; “ I was 
going to say, you know yourself what they are — they 
are the old faults ; and you will learn to correct 
them.” 

When he said good-by I refused his proffered 
hand ; but with an impulse I could not restrain, I 
threw my arms about his neck. 

“ Kiss me ! kiss me ! I want you to kiss me !” 

“ What a sweet, sweet child you are !” he said, 
with his steadfast gaze upon me. And bowing his 
snow-crowned head he kissed me lightly on the fore- 
head. 

May 23. — Since I have seen Mr. Bryant I think no 
more of my book. All the good that may be said of 
it cannot add to the satisfaction I enjoy in knowing 
that Mr. Bryant is pleased with it ; all the evil that 
may be said of it cannot detract from my opinion, 
since it is also Mr. Bryant’s opinion, that the book is 
a success — a success of merit, 

I begin to feel what a goose I have made of myself, 


186 


FLORINE. 


to suffer all that I have suffered for my book. The 
truth is, it is a suffering that counts for nothing. 

I just now realize, also, that the way I have con- 
ducted myself through this ordinary ordeal, has not 
been consistent with my fine theories about the folly 
of borrowing trouble, of exaggerating trouble, of 
suffering for what one cannot help. 

It is easy to talk of what one will do, and to write 
down what one will do ; but what is not easy — with- 
out some disagreeable practice — is to do all that we 
have promised ourselves and others to do. 

I am only now in a condition to take the profit 
from what has been said of my book. The public is 
at the same time pitiless and beneficent to us. Its 
opinions are not always just ; but they are often use- 
ful. Its criticisms are frequently not even intelligent 
And they are not always correct when honestly 
made. But, subtracting all that is deplorable, there 
is still a remainder of wholesome instruction for the 
individual who is wise enough to profit by it. 

I fancy that one cause of the author’s disappoint- 
ment is that he expects the entire public to see what 
he has written as he sees it, and to feel it as he feels 
it ; when the truth is that only come people, who 
think like him, may do this ; for the rest, what is 
written must be wonderful enough or interesting 


FLORINE. 


187 


enough to attract the curiosity and to hold the intel- 
ligence. 

It seems to me the only comfortable way for an 
author to do, is to write what he believes true — or 
what he can persuade himself to believe true; and 
to resign it philosophically to its fate. 

May 24. — These early Spring days have given 
mamma the desire to go out. She has asked me to 
send for her carriage and horses. She thinks they 
are in the country. What am I to do ? 

May 25. — I said I would rather die than accept a 
certain generosity. I was mistaken ; I have accepted 
it — gladly accepted it. Not for my own sake, but 
for my mother’s sake. I see that I would do any- 
thing that I believed I would not do — anything to 
keep my mother always happy. 

What was I to do about the carriage ? I went to 
Aubrey Willis and asked him what. How do you 
think I felt when he told me he had not sold the 
horses or the carriage — but that he had kept them 
for himself, and that I was to take them and use 
them ? I will tell you, my daughter: for the first 
time I thanked God for a friend. 

Dear Aubrey ! He is one of the family — he always 


188 


FLORINE. 


seemed one of us. Now, when lie is so good to us, 
it seems that something of papa is yet left to us. 

We are going to the Park this afternoon, in 
Aubrey’s carriage — that once was ours. Poor 
mamma ! poor Florine ! When I say “ poor,” it is 
not merely a figure of speech — you will understand 
that, my daughter. 

May 2 6. — A new trouble has come : mamma insists 
on our going to the country — to our own home in the 
country. I tell her* that I wish to go elsewhere — to 
the Mountains, to the Lakes. I tell her I cannot 
bear to go to our old home — where we were so happy 
with papa. That is precisely her reason for wanting 
to go there. 

Mamma does not know our country house is sold. 
I cannot bear to tell her the truth. The house was 
bought with her money ; and how can I tell her it is 
no longer hers? However, I expected to tell her, 
I had only been waiting till she would be quite 
strong. But the doctor says she will never again be 
4 quite strong,’ and I have not the courage to tell her 
— I have not, I have not ! 

May 27. — I have been to see the doctor about 
mamma. I have had to tell him something about 
our financial condition. I have had to tell him, in 


FLORINE. 


189 


short, that we are not ricli ; and that he must forbid 
mamma to go — to what she thinks is our country 
home. 

“ Why,” he said ; “ I should not permit her to go 
there were it still your home ! Because she so 
greatly desires to go there, is reason enough why she 
should not go. It is a morbid desire to look upon 
the scenes of the past. She would brood over her 
sorrow and bring a return of her malady.” 

This is how that trouble is, for the present, ended. 
And mamma will go with me to a quiet place near 
one of the small lakes. But I can see that she is 
grieved not to go to our old home ; and this grieves 
me. I try to love her so much that she will think 
only of my loving — but the tears are in my heart the 
sobs are in my throat. 

May 31. — Annoying things, disagreeable things, 
worrying things are perpetual in these poor days. 

It is very well to theorize on contentment when 
one is rich and comfortable. I can understand the 
virtue of contentment when one is simply comfort- 
able and not rich. I can now even imagine certain 
conditions of the mind and body when one could be 
contented with poverty for one’s self. But to be con- 
tent with the misery and discomfort of others that 


190 


FLORINE. 


we love — that we love more than ourselves — never ! 
never ! never ! 

I hate poverty, I hate it, I hate it ! I was born to 
be rich ! I do not want to be anything else than 
rich ! I can never be good while I am poor. I 
know that wealth is best for me — try me, God, once 
more try me ! 

O God, give me patience — patience ! Help me 
to keep saying — to keep saying, “ It will not last 
always.” It must not last — if God hears praying! 
And He does hear it ! He does hear it ! 

Do you know that I look older than I ought to 
look ? But it is the oldness of youth ; an oldness 
that much happiness and no care would quickly 
efface. 

June io. — Things are growing worse and worse. 
Yesterday a hollow-eyed, nervous, poor looking but 
gentlemanly appearing individual presented him- 
self with the request to see mamma. Of course I, 
and not mamma, saw him. He held a note payable 
to himself and signed by my papa. 

Perhaps it was borrowed money ; perhaps it was a 
gambling debt. I do not know. I only know that I 
paid it ; that it took the whole of this month’s rent 
to pay it ; and that we shall not be able to go to the 
‘ quiet place near the lake ’ bv the first of July. We 


FLORINE. 


191 


shall not have money enough to go. And what 
excuse am I to give mamma for our not going then ? 
God help me ! I know not what to do. 

Were Aubrey Willis here I should tell him every- 
thing. I should ask him to let me do something for 
him — something he pays others for doing. 

But Aubrey is in Europe. Just think of it — of the 
many, many friends I have who seem to make much 
of me, Aubrey is the only one to whom I would tell 
my trouble ! He is the only one who would feel sin- 
cere sympathy for me ; whose sympathy would have 
no background of rejoicing — at least, his sympathy 
is the only sympathy I can feel sure that I can be 

t 

sure of. This is life. This is the difference between 
a friend and friends. Aubrey loves me because I am 
me ; others love me for what I possess. 

How very, very few there are to whom we are 
really near and precious ! How few who love us as 
they love themselves ! 

Henceforth, whether I am poor or rich, humble or 
great, I shall love more closely the few I really love, 
the few who really love me. The world has nothing 
for us when we have nothing for it. It is good to us 
when we can best do without it. Do not bother 
about it, my daughter. Do not fear to wound it. 
Fear only to wound those who will feel your wound- 


192 


FLORINE. 


ing ; fear only not to love enough those who love 
you. 

June 12. — Mr. Bryant is dead. I was out of town 
when he died ; and it was only in returning home 
this afternoon that I heard he was dead. There 
were people all about me. No matter ; I cried in 
the most distressing way. I do not often cry in these 
days, and when I do it is something to be afraid of 
— for myself to be afraid of. 

June 13. — I have just looked upon the dead face 
of Mr. Bryant. There was so much of peace in the 
dead quietness of that face, that it hushed my grief. 
I thought of him only as I last saw him, and I 
seemed to feel his hands upon my head, and to hear 
him say : “ Poor child ! I pity you for what you 

will one day suffer !” 

How thankful I am for that last parting with him! 
I keep thinking of it, and of all the wise and kind 
things he said to me. I think of him as in Heaven ; 
as living, and not dead. I cannot at all conceive 
how one could recover from the mournfulness of a 
death, if one could not believe this. 

But think of it as happily as I may, it is still pain- 
ful to think of it. No one can be to me what he has 


FLORINE. 


193 


been : so kind and so severe ; so loving and so 
grave. 

I have a horrible dread that my mother will die 
when I am not with her. I never leave her without 
the most tender parting. To think of papa’s going 
forever from me without a parting word ! I never 
cease to suffer for that. 

I pray to God with my whole heart to make my 
mother’s sometime going easy for me ; to make it 
some way that I can happily think of it ; to let her 
die in my arms, to die without pain, to die loving 
me, smiling upon me — to die some way that will not 
be to me a horrible way. And the dread that I 
shall suffer, no matter what the way may be, is the 
one haunting terror of my life. 

June 18. — The doctor says mamma is not well ; 
and I see that she looks frail. I have told her we * 
cannot go to the country the first of July. My 
excuse for not going is that she is not strong enough 
to travel. 

The doctor says she must have certain luxuries in 
the way of food and costly wines. And she must 
have medicine. 

We must have money ! I am writing short stories 
for magazines, for money. I am writing at the 
same time another book. I am writing it also for 


194 


FLORINE. 


money. It is my mother’s flesh and blood that I am 
helping to preserve by my writing. 

My God ! this is true : I am working for my 
mother’s life. And every one who knows what it is 
to write for money, knows how little money one 
makes that way, and how slowly one makes it. 

June 20. — If I could not write for money I would 
do something else for money. I would do anything 
to keep all care from mamma, and not let her know 
we are poor. 

And how I used to write fine things about the 
* working people !’ O God, forgive me for the old 
haughtiness of heart ! 

One must be poor to know how to speak of 
poverty. The working men and women who are 
proud and poor, who are sensitive and poor, who 
* are refined and poor — God pity them ! 

I wish now that I had money to give to every 
young woman and every young man who is ambi- 
tious, but poor ; who is good of heart, but poor ; 
who is fine in feeling and taste, but poor. To some 
poverty is a blessing, but to these it is a curse. 

Do you know it seems astonishing now to me, how 
thoughtless the fortunate people are? One is so 
different when one is poor. One wonders how 
certain beings can be so happy, while there are 


FLORINE. 


195 


other beings that cannot be happy ; beings who 
seem to fail in everything ; whose every effort seems 
to be the sport of a contrary destiny. Of course, 
there is something lacking in the ‘ make up ’ of these 
chronic unfortunates. But who is to blame for this ?. 
The father or the grandfather, or the great-grand- 
father. No matter; the poor unfortunates are 
down, and they must stay down. Forturiate people 
cannot help this ! No. But they might look as if 
they were sorry for it : and because they do not, 
they are hated ; and they deserve to be hated. 

It is fine to believe that ‘genius will assert itself.” 
Perhaps it will. But few people have genius ; and 
only some people have talent ; the majority of 
beings are simply intelligent ; many are good with- 
out being intelligent. And these do not always find 
a legitimate way to live by their intelligence or their 
goodness. 

Legitimate way ! My daughter, this is what I 
mean : when a girl of unmistakable dramatic talent 
presents herself before a manager as applicant for a 
* situation,* what do you think she is asked ? 

“ Well, let us see what you can do !” or, “ Recite 
this,” “ Sing that.” 

Not at all. This is what she is asked : 

“Who is to pay for you — for your gowns, for your 
‘opening night’ — for everything that will be neces- 


196 


FLORINE. 


sary to make of you a success ?” In other words, 
“Whose mistress are you — or the mistress of what 
rich man are you going to be ?” 

Is not this frightful ? Sometimes the girl goes 
away discouraged ; sometimes she accepts the situa- 
tion — damnable as it is. 

The government should regulate the examinations 
and the price of merit. 

It is nice to believe that * where there’s a will 
there’s a way.’ I believe it — with my whole soul I 
believe it. I believe that with patience and courage 
— and some ability to work for it — the wished for, 
or the equivalent to the wished for, will come about. 

But there are individuals in whom courage is 
naturally wanting ; and for whom necessity makes 
patience impossible. What of these ? These make 
the communists ^ and why not ? 

July i. — This is a miserable and a distressing life 
if we are poor ; it is a miserable and a distressing 
life if we have ill health ; it is a miserable life if we 
have not one, that we love, to love us more than he 
or she loves all others ; it is a miserable life if we 
have a bad disposition, or if there are bad disposi- 
tions about us. And how many of us have not one 
of these miseries or more than one of them ? In 
truth, this life’s happiness depends so much upon 


FLORINE. 


197 


certain possessions that we cannot make ourselves 
possess when we do not possess them, that it would 
be folly to believe, that if we have reason to be 
charmed with living to-day, we shall always be 
charmed with it. 

July 1 6. — I am in a delirium of excitement. I 
have never written as I am writing now. I cannot 
sleep. As soon as I close my eyes thoughts come, 
and I cannot rest till I have written them down. 
After that I am too feverish to sleep. 

For the first time in my life I have no appetite. I 
cannot think of anything I should like to eat ; and I 
do not eat. I only drink a great deal of coffee — and 
that stimulates my brain to more working than it 
ought to do. The creative intoxication has taken 
possession of all my senses. I shall suffer for this — 
I do suffer for it. 

* * ***** 

O, my God, give me strength to finish my book ! 
I feel strangely now, while I write in this Journal. 
What is this ? I can scarcely see ! 

July 24. — I can now understand the desperate 
feeling that impels a frenzied being to end li is life. 

My mother’s happiness and her comfort depend 


198 


FLORINE. 


upon me and my work. And I am helpless ; I can 
do nothing. 

I have a wild desire to escape from myself. I do 
not want to go entirely out of life ; but I want to 
get away from it for a time — to forget it. I want to 
be dead for a month, or for a year, and come to life 
again — to find things as I wish them to be. 

I have had to stop writing — entirely stop it. The 
doctor says I must not write a word — even in my 
Journal. It is now a matter of complete breaking 
down, or of building up. And the ‘ building up * 
will be slow. The reaction so long dreaded has 
come. My stomach does not seem to work at all. I 
have all gone to brain. I am so nervous that a 
sound is agony to me. 

July 26. — If I have at present no appetite, in 
revenge, my mother’s very dainty appetite has come 
back ; and she is not satisfied with the food served 
to us. Often she sends away what is set before her; 
and I make excuses and pretend to see the cook. My 
actions doubtless seem strange to mamma ; for I 
cannot entirely hide my worry and my distress. 

O God, give me money ! Not for my sake, but 
for my mother’s sake ! Thou knowest that I love 
the good things of this life : take them from me — 
take them from me ! Give me only bread and 


FLORINE. 


199 


water — but give everything that is dainty and best 
to my mother ! Look into my heart ! Tell me, 
God, am I not sincere in this prayer ? I am — I am 
sincere ! 

July 27. — I have just heard this conversation 
between two men — at an elevated railway station I 
heard it. One of the men — a very big man — was 
dressed as well as money without taste could dress 
him ; the other — a very little man — had evidently 
profited by the suggestions of his tailor and linen 
maker, and was more of a success. 

Big Man — (Rubbing his hands together gleefully) 
“You saw my name in the papers yesterday, eh ?” 

Little Man — “ Of course I seen it. You’ve done a 
handsome thing ! Twenty thousand dollars to the 
C fund, and thirty thousand to the H Build- 

ing is a very handsome thing !” 

Big Man — “ I should say it were ! Sounds well, 
eh ? Name in the papers, and half a column 
about one’s generosity, and one’s Christian philan- 
thropy — and all that ! Between you and me, 
though, this sort o’ thing goes about as hard as 
pullin’ one’s tooth out. But we must do it, you 
know — must do it !” 

Little Man— (Mournfully) “Yes, must do it ! I 


200 


FLORINE. 


suppose you’ll make it up, though — on your clerks 
and your tenants ?” 

Big Man — “ Make it up on my workmen and my 
tenants ? Well, I should say so ! I’ll squeeze it out 
of ’em ! I’ll lower their wages and raise the rents ! 
If they won’t pay I’ll take their furnitoor ! You 
don’t suppose I mean to lose anything, eh ?” 

My daughter, the train came, and I did not hear 
the little man’s reply. 

These are the kind of rich men that make the poor 
people hate all rich people. 

These are the kind of rich men who would sell 
their daughters and their money-bags for the 
privilege of securing to their family an impecunious 
duke, or lord, or count — who lets himself be taken 
care of, and makes fun of the family. 

And these are often the men who say furnitoor for 
furniture, and were for was and seen for saw. 

My God ! Just think of purse-proud, illiterate 
animals like these, to be rich in millions — while there 
are so many delicate, sensitive, cultured women, for 
whom a few hundred dollars would be a joy-giving, 
life-supporting, precious god-send ! 

July 28. — It has come to this : that I do not 
know how we are to pay the expenses of the coming 


FLORINE. 


201 


month. And people think we are rich. What a 
hideous mockery is the truth ! 

God ! God ! Give me money ! Give me money 
somehow — some way ! Thou hast promised to hear 
us when we pray to Thee. Hear me ! Thou must 
hear me ! O God, for Christ’s sake, for my mother’s 
sake, hear me ! 

July 29. — Last night I was in a desperate mood. 
I felt like a wild animal looks y when chained and 
tortured. I prayed walking frenziedly about the 
room. My prayers were cries — pleading, agonizing 
cries. I stopped from time to time to stare about 
me, as if I expected a miracle to take place. I felt 
that something would be done for me. If I had not 
felt so I should have lost faith in God. 

Then the thought came to me to sell a diamond 
ring. It was not a gift from papa or mamma — it 
was a ring I had bought myself. I received a good 
price for it — almost as much as it was worth. As 
the thought had never before come into my head to 
sell it, I take it as an immediate answer to my 
prayer. 

August 6. — How happy I am to be able to look 
displeased when mamma is displeased, and to order 
in my old, ‘ spoiled child ’ way, a bird, a sweetbread 


202 


FLORINE. 


— or any dainty thing that mamma likes, and that 
costs more than a little money ! 

Mamma is an epicure. She has a delicious enjoy- 
ment in eating daintily what she likes. I know now 
what are the sweets of self-denial. It is an intense 
delight to watch my mother take up each delicate 
morsel. 

I eat coarse, substantial food — that I never liked. 
I pretend that I eat it because it is good for me. 
I tell mamma it is making me strong. But I am not 
strong. 

Just think of it, my daughter — that one week ago 
I was so desperate I might have put an end to my 
life ! I should not have done it in a sane moment ; 
but in the distress that I was there were moments 
when I was not sane. And think, too, that it was 
for want of money that I was like that, and that a 
few hundred dollars has made me so happy that I 
shudder at the thought that I might now be dead ! 
A few hundred dollars ! and I have spent thousands 
without a thought of their value ; and many others 
have done this, are now doing it, without being able 
to feel, without being able to know what a terrible 
thing it is to be without any money to spend. 

But this money will not last always. If only I 
could do something ! Alas ! now when I am hum- 
ble enough to do anything, I can do nothing. I 


FLORINE. 


203 


have no longer the strengtli to work. When I try 
to write a buzzing sound comes in my ears, a dim- 
ness to my sight, and a dull pain in my head. Then 
I fall on my knees and pray for money, and a return 
of my good health. I pray with a soul in my prayers 
that must take them straight to Heaven. God must 
hear and help me. I shall never cease this crying to 
Him till I am answered — or dead. 

August 9. — I am more than three hundred miles 
from my mother. This is where the doctor wishes 
mamma to come. He says it is also the best place for 
me. Mamma wished me to see it before we posi- 
tively decided to come. 

The summer is almost over, but no matter ; if 
mamma likes it we shall stay here through October. 
I am sure I shall like it. There must be something 
unusual in the air of this place, for I already feel 
better. This little 4 better ’ makes me feel how good 
it would be to feel once more quite well. 

In my happy days I always felt thankful for my 
health. I felt glad that I lived — with no other glad- 
ness than simply the sense of living. 

My health is only impaired ; and with care I shall 
get it back. When it is back, I shall take every care 
to preserve it. I have said this before : but I have 
now made the most solemn resolutions to do it. 


204 


FLORINE. 


With health one has a force to combat everything ; 
without it one is helpless and miserable. 

August io. — Now God, hear me ! Oh God, do 
anything with me for the whole of my life — give me 
many burdens, all burdens to bear — but save me 
from this suffering ! Do not, for the dear, loving 
Christ’s sake, do not let my mother die before I get 
home ! Let me see her ! Let me say something to 
her, let her say something to me — one word, dear 
loving God ! Christ, Thou who hast suffered, Thou 
knowest what it is to suffer — and Thou knowest the 
suffering of my poor little heart ! Let me get home ! 
Let me see my mother yet living ! If she is dying — 
bring her back to life ! Thou canst — Thou art God 1 
Bring her back to life ! Let me love her — let me be 
satisfied in my heart, before she dies ! Let me get 
home ! Oh God, Thou must hear me ! I shall go 
mad ! I shall die — here — at this hour, if Thou wilt 
not hear me ! Hear me, God of my mother, hear me ! 
Hear me ! Hear me ! — 

August ii. — With the last cry of this agonizing 
prayer I must have swooned ; for I remember noth- 
ing after that till I awoke to find myself lying upon the 
floor. Something warm was bubbling in my throat. 
It was blood. In the violence of my emotion I must 


FLORINE. 


205 


have burst a blood vessel. I dragged myself to a 
couch and lay down ; then I recalled my frenzied 
agony, and my prayer. But the terror had gone ; 
and a great calmness had come upon me. I felt as 
if something unusual had taken place. 

This morning I am still calm. If mamma was 
dying when the dispatch was sent — that I received 
last evening — she is now dead. But I feel certain 
she is not dead. I am at peace ; I suffer no longer 
the fear and the agony that was driving me mad last 
night. It would not be possible to feel like this if 
mamma were dying, or if she were dead. No ! God 
is in this. He has heard my crying to Him. I shall 
see my mother ; I shall see her living, and not dead, 
I am waiting now for the train to take me to her. I 
could not go last night. When the dispatch came I 
wanted to fly to my mother ; and it was impossible 
then to go in any way to her. You can understand 
now the intensity of my suffering. 

August 13. — “Your mother is better. The doctor 
says she will get well.” 

These were the first words that greeted me as I 
entered my home. 

I have no words to express the intensity of what I 
felt. One must feel like this to die of too much 
pain ; but what I felt was too much joy. 


206 


FLORINE. 


There are degrees of self control that are 
marvelous. Within myself I was hysterical : to my 
mother I was tranquil — smiling. I spoke also very 
quietly. 

“ Mamma, I am here ! Your little Florine is here, 
to love you, to take care of you — to make you well 
again.” 

“ You, Florine ? Oh yes, I remember ; you would 
not let me die. It was your praying that called me 
back. I was already in the Valley — and I was so 
happy ! I am very tired, dear — tired of earth.” 
Then, seeing my distress, she added, “ But for your 
sake I am willing to live.” 

I could not speak ; but kneeling beside her couch 
I kissed her soft hands over and over. 

My mother was brought back to life. It was as 
much a miracle as the bringing of the dead to life. 

After the dispatch was sent to me, my mother grew 
weaker and weaker. Later she was unconscious. 
The doctor, holding her pulse, said she could not 
live longer than half an hour. 

“ She will sleep away. Do not try to arouse her.” 
This he said to the nurse, and went out. 

Later, mamma was so still that the nurse thought 
she was dead. To her amazement mamma suddenly 
opened her eyes, and looking about her as though 
she expected to see me, said : 


FLORINE. 


20 T 


“ Florine ! Florine ! Why have you called me 
back ? I was so happy !” 

It was one o'clock in the morning when this took 
place. That was precisely the hour I had recovered 
from my swoon to find myself so strangely calm. 

O God, dear loving God, I thank Thee ! I do 
want to be Thine — all Thine ! I do want to please 
Thee, to love Thee for Thy love to me — for this 
giving back of my mother to me ! 

August 25. — The doctor never was so astonished, 
he says, as at this recovery of my mother. And I 
feel that she is only lent to me ; and that I must 
take still more care of this precious loan. Mamma 
must know nothing of the unhappiness of living. 

Septe 7 iiber 15. — I am going to be married. I write 
this as calmly as were it an ordinary thing that is to 
happen to me. The truth is that I am wild with 
excitement, and that my marriage seems to me the 
most extraordinary thing that could happen — extra- 
ordinary because I am to marry Aubrey Willis. 

Aubrey returned from Europe last week. When I 
told him about mamma, there were tears in his eyes. 
This gave me courage to tell him everything about 
myself. 

He looked at me very gravely and very tenderly ; 


208 


FLORINE. 


and then — well I cannot tell how it came about : it 
was so sudden, so unexpected — so undreamed of. 
But it did come about — that Aubrey said I must 
marry him ; that there was no other way to save my 
own pride, and to insure the happiness of my 
mother ; that I could not go on living the way I 
now live — that mamma would have to know all 
about it, and I must marry him for her sake as well 
as for my own sake. Then he said I was as dear to 
him as his own soul — that I had always been dear to 
him ; but that he was not thinking of himself in 
asking me to marry him ; for of course he could 
not expect me to love him as he was loving me. 

I remember to have said that he was mistaken ; 
that I had always loved him next dear to loving 
papa and mamma ; that I was sure I loved him as 
much as he loved me. 

Then he said that would be too much happiness 
to hope for ; but that if I would be his wife he would 
do everything in his power to make me happy. 

I cannot tell either how I came to make up my mind 
at once to marry him ; but .1 did make it up. It 
seemed to me that Aubrey was right, and that it 
would be the very best thing for me to do — to marry 
him. So I am going to be the wife of Aubrey 
Willis. 


FLORINE. 


209 


September 20. — I do not know if mamma is so very, 
very glad I am to marry Aubrey. She loves him so 
much that I cannot see why she should not be glad. 
And Aubrey is very fine looking — very distinguS. But 
mamma does not know all that I have to be glad 
for ; she does not suspect all the good that this mar- 
riage is to bring about. 

Oh, but I know ! and to think that I shall have no 
more worry and no more care — no more thought of 
where and how I shall get money ! 

If you only knew, my daughter, what I feel of 
gladness and relief ! It is as if a burden as big as 
the universe were lifted from me. 

I feel like sleeping a long time. I know that my 
life and mamma’s would go on without me ; and that 
I should not be disturbed in my slumber, but should 
waken at my own sweet will. 

This is the answer to my much praying. God 
knows what is best for me — and that it is best to 
marry Aubrey. 

September 30. — I remember that I said some time 
ago that I was too proud to marry a rich man even 
if I loved him. 

Well, I was not thinking then of Aubrey Willis. I 
could not have thought of him like that — because I 


210 


FLORINE. 


was not suspecting that lie could love me as he was 
even then loving me. 

Then, too, one can only know absolutely that one 
will not do something, when one has had the chance 
to do it. You see that, my daughter. 

And to marry Aubrey Willis is quite different from 
marrying any other man. It will be like going on 
with our old family life — going on without papa. 

October 5. — It is curious that I never thought that 
Aubrey might love me — now that I know he has 
always loved me. It seems so natural that he should 
be my husband. He has known me since I was a 
baby. He has taken me on his knee as often as papa 
took me. In my child days he was a great comfort 
to me. 

Do you think that if I could now marry any one 
of those whom I refused to marry when I was rich, 
that I would do so ? I would not. If I could have 
my choice among all the men that I know, I should 
choose Aubrey — now that I know he loves me. 

Any other dream of loving and love that I have 
had in days gone by, was only a dream — a girl’s 
dream. This is real. This is a love to be grateful 
for ; a love that will be a great good. 

To think that I shall no longer be worried and 


FLORINE. 


211 


distressed ! To think that I shall have nothing to 
do but be happy ! 

October 12. — Aubrey is a fairy godmother. He does 
nothing but plan how to make me happy. For the 
winters we are to have a new and a beautiful home, 
fitted up to my liking and to my taste. For the sum- 
mers we are to go to our own old country home. It 
belongs to Aubrey. As soon as he found out how 
things were, he bought it ; and everything is as we 
left it. Mamma will never know it was sold. It is 
to belong to me. This is my surprise. Aubrey was 
thinking of me and loving me when he bought our 
home. Aubrey’s love is a great love. I feel awed 
by it, and touched to tears by it. With all my heart 
I wish to be worthy of this love. I am worthy 
of it. 

One would not like to be grateful to anybody. I 
cannot think of any one to whom I should like to be 
grateful, but Aubrey. It is that I know he is hap- 
piest in knowing that he makes me happy ; and 
because I am sure he loves me for myself. I have 
nothing but myself to give him. However, I think 
that is much to give ; and Aubrey thinks too it is 
much. He says he is grateful to me for myself. 


October 22. — We are married. We were married 


212 


FLORINE. 


this afternoon, in the church. This is the one event 
that will be of the greatest interest to you, my 
daughter ; and I have only a few minutes to tell you 
about it. 

I looked very sweet ; but there are many times 
when I have looked better. There is a charm about 
me that is more charming than my prettiness. It is 
something one feels without seeing. I am a flower 
growing out of a heart. People could only see the 
flower this afternoon ; they could not feel the heart. 
I like my every-day self best. 

After the ceremonv I was nervous. I have alwavs 
* * 

liked to be looked at ; but this was a singularity that 
was not of myself. The man by my side was a part 
of my oneness. I am not sure that I shall get accus- 
tomed to be looked at in a double sense. 

***** * * 

We are alone in a strange city, in a strange hotel. 
Aubrey has just left me for an hour — he says. When 
that hour is up he will come back, not to his room, 
not to my room — but to our room. He will come 
back to stay with me — to stay the whole night with 
me. No one will think there is anything unusual 
about his staying — no one but I. 

It is curious that a few words uttered by a man 
and a woman standing up together, side by side, can 


FLORINE. 


213 


change the whole world’s way of thinking about the 
woman ! 

To tell the truth, my daughter, until to-day I only 
thought of the change that my marriage would bring 
in the affairs about me ; I did not think at all of the 
change it would bring to me. 

However, I have had very decided ideas about 
married life. I have them yet. I do not think I 
shall like to sleep always with my husband. I have 
never liked to sleep with a girl. But we shall see 
later about this. The question is, how do you feel 
now, Florine — Florine Willis — now that you are 
married ? I hardly know : I think I am curious. 

November 24 — lam happier then I ever dreamed of 
being — happier than I ever imagined one could be. 
I wonder how married people can ever be unhappy. 
Aubrey says the reason that makes me wonder is 
just the reason I am happy. 

November 29. — What a hideous thing is poverty ! 
I am glad, oh, I am so glad that I am Aubrey’s wife ! 

What does the world say about ingratitude — that 
there is nothing else but ingratitude for the one that 
does something admirable for some other one ? 

That is not true. Do you know how glad I am, 
how grateful I am to be Aubrey’s wife ? I will tell 


214 


FLORINE. 


you : often in the silence of the night I get up; I go 
to my husband, I awaken him, I throw my arms 
about him, and I tell him again and again how thank- 
ful I am to him, and how I love him for the happi- 
ness he has brought to me. 

And do you know what he does ? He takes me to 
his heart, thanking God, with tears of joy in his 
eyes, that I love him, that I am his. 

You see that I am grateful, and that I love my 
husband, and that I make him happy. 

December 6. — My health is perfect. Now that I 
have money, now that I am happy — there is no 
reason why I should not live a hundred years. No 
matter that few do live so long, and that they have 
all the feebleness and decrepitude of old age ; I am 
not going to be old like that. I am not going to be 
old at all — no matter how long I shall live. 

I have my theories. I am persuaded that one can 
preserve the vitality and the charm of youth, if one 
would be resolute to preserve them. I am going to 
do this. What a delicious thing it would be to live 
one hundred years, or two hundred years, and with 
the experience of age enjoy all the vigor and retain 
all the charm of youth ! I shall be like this. 


ELORINE. 


215 


1879 . 


January n. — You see, my daughter, that I no 
longer take note of my birthdays. It is that I do 
not wish you to think of me as at a particular age. 
We are all like this — once we leave the ‘ teens.’ 

January 25. — Long ago when I was happy — before 
I ever was unhappy — I used to feel like floating when 
I walked. Now I feel like flying. The first thought 
when I awaken in the morning is “ Dear God, I thank 
Thee that I live !” My last thought at night is, 
“ Dear God, I thank Thee for my life !” 

There is nothing restless, nothing exciting, noth- 
ing feverish in the happiness I feel. It is satisfaction, 
it is repose, it is content. I love the whole world. 
I feel good to everybody. 

January 31. — Oh God, I do love Thee — for Thy- 
self I love Thee ! Look into my heart — look close, 
close ! Am I not truly thankful to Thee ? Do I not 
truly love Thee ? I do — I do love Thee ! I keep 
wishing Thou wert here ; near to us as Jesus was 
once near to us — near to our human loving : that I 


216 


FLORINE. 


might love Thee as the disciple loved Thee — cling- 
ing to Thee. 

Is this passion ? Is it enthusiasm ? Is it devotion ? 
Whatever it is, it is sincere. “ Make it, O God, a 
feeling worthy of Thee, acceptable to Thee ! Make 
it what in my loving I want it to be. Thou 
knowest.” 

Febj'uary 27. — Never was there a husband who knew 
better how to make a wife calmly, comfortably happy 
than Aubrey. In his constant desire to please me, 
he has made of this pleasing an art. He studies my 
tastes and my habits, and not only satisfies them — 
he delights them. And he is absolutely unselfish. I 
am positive he enjoys my enjoyment more than he 
enjoys his own. 

What a blessing to a woman’s life is a husband 
like Aubrey ! How good it is to be able to trust a 
human being as I trust him — with a trust that 
admits of no doubt and no suspicion ! 

Between two beings who truly love there can be 
no deceiving and no fear of it. From heart to heart 
is that silent telegraphing of feeling as it is, that the 
faintest attempt of one to deceive disturbs the 
serenity of the other. When one doubts, when one 
fears, there is some reason to doubt and to fear, 


FLORINE. 


217 


When there is the smallest reason, they no longer 
truly love. 

March io. — I was rummaging in an old cabinet 
to-day. I have so little curiosity that Aubrey has 
taken no precaution to efface any witnesses he may 
have of bygone sentiment. 

From vanity, or from instinct, I feel so sure of the 
supremacy of my husband's affection for me, that I 
have never questioned him in regard to his past. He 
was what the world calls a correct man. 

But where is the man or woman who has not had 
his or her romance ? I have not fancied that my 
husband has had no Move affair.’ 1 have been sim- 
ply indifferent to his past. 

But when I unearthed this bundle of letters, written 
in a delicate chirography, with their faint odor of 
perfame and the scent of dead flowers, I had a pain- 
ful feeling of the heart I had not yet had. And 
when I found with these letters a long tress of golden 
hair, I was anything but happy. 

We all dread to make painful discoveries — to be 
disillusionized ; and I was looking at the doubtful 
effects in my possession in a distressed way, when 
Aubrey entered. 

“My dear child,” he said, “now that you have 
seen those letters, you had better read’ them.” 


218 


FLORINE. 


I did read them, every one. They were love letters 
— very loving love letters. But there was something 
in the doubts and the reproaches continually 
expressed, that made me feel more sure of the 
strength and the tenderness of my husband’s love for 
me. I could easily see it was a love affair that one 
might have more than once, and not really love. 

I cried a little, but I no longer feel hurt. It is very 
foolish to be unhappy over the past of those we love 
— so long as we feel that their loving of us is all that 
we could wish it to be. 

However, others have felt as I felt, in making a 
similar discovery. And in my opinion husbands and 
wives should leave no traces of their old life to be 
stumbled upon in the new — if they sincerely love 
each other and desire to be happy. For there is no 
corner secret enough to keep certain souvenirs 
hidden from the searching eyes and foraging hands 
of the one who sincerely loves us. 

After all, one cares nothing for these souvenirs. In 
the possession of a present and satisfying happiness, 
the sentiment that clings to them is oftenest of the 
imagination ; and once they are destroyed we think 
no more of them. 

April 1 6. — I am very happy ; but I am happiest ir. 


FLORINE. 


210 


the thought that I am making mamma and Aubrey 
happy. Aubrey said to-day : 

“ I should die if you did not love me." 

“ Then you will live forever, my husband, if my 
always loving can make you live.” 

There are many who say we cannot have perfect 
happiness in this life. I am perfectly happy. I have 
nothing to wish for. 






April 20. — There is no illusion about the fact that 
I love myself. 

Well, let me see — am I really beautiful ? To be 
strictly beautiful one must have very large eyes and 
very straight nose. My eyes are not large, and my 
nose is not absolutely straight. 

To be really beautiful one cannot make one’s self 
look ugly ; and there are certain effects that entirely 
spoil my good looks. 

I rather think I have only a fine face, and a pretty 
face. But I pass for beautiful. People speak of me 
as beautiful. So that if I have idealized myself, 
others have also idealized me. It must be a precious 
illusion to influence others as well as myself. 

Do you know what I think about it ? It is this : 
that it is not my beauty that charms ; it is some- 
thing else that is the charm of that beauty — some- 
thing that Nature has given me, and that I have 


220 


FLORINE. 


cultivated and improved upon : it is that I know 
how to look, that I know how to speak, that I know 
how to feel with the soul. 

But here is my portrait for you, my daughter. 
My skin is like the portrait of a blonde, done in oil — 
which is a shade yellower than the real, live blonde. 
It has a faint, mellow coloring — as if touched by the 
evening red of a sunlit sky. My eyes — of a name- 
less color — are wonderful in their expression. They 
would be commonplace were it not for this expres- 
sion. My teeth have that ivory soundness and 
whiteness, and shininess, that suggest a flash of the 
diablerie. My mouth is the sweetest thing about me. 
It is not like a flower — it is more alive. It talks 
when my tongue is silent. It is most like a caress 
—if one can think of form when one thinks of a 
caress. 

April 24. — I talk to you, my daughter, as if you 
were surely going to be. I have so accustomed 
myself to think of you as real, that should you not 
be, I fear it would be a great grief to me. 

One reason why I think it would be well for you 
and for me that you should one day exist, is for the 
sake of the school-mistress element in me : for that 
element certainly is in me. I like to preach and to 
teach ; I like to correct, to perfect — to form some 


FLORINE. 


221 


one after my fashion. I see this in the persistency 
with which I correct the faults of the beings I love 
best. 

I should be of great use to my friends — if they 
only knew it, or would graciously acknowledge it. 
But it is with great difficulty and with much hurt- 
ing of their vanity, that I can persuade them they 
have faults. I am surprised at this, and that they 
cannot at once see that it is only because I love 
them that I try to persuade them. 

I can truly say I am not like this. On the con- 
trary, I wish I had a friend as persistent to correct 
me as I am to correct others. I mean a real friend, 
who could have no other motive than the desire to 
improve me. 

However, I make use of my enemies to know my 
faults ; they use no ointment in the wounding of my 
self love. And in my desire to searcli out my faults, 
and in my diligence to get rid of them, I have not 
so many as some other people less vain than myself. 
The faults I have are new faults — the interest of the 
old ; the principal is effaced. 

In talking to you so often and so finely of myself, 
you might suppose I am gratified to have others 
talk to me finely of myself. My daughter, you 
would be very wrong to think so. My vanity is of a 
curious kind. It is so great that I value my own 


222 


FLORINE. 


opinion of myself more than the opinion of any one 
else. No one could please me by discovering in me 
a charm that I have not discovered. I should know 
I did not really possess it. 

I have a correct sense, in these days, of what I 
deserve. If I have not, the belief that I have is of 
good service to me ! it has unloosed the burden of 
sensitiveness that was once so distressing to me. I 
know when I am appreciated without being told so. 
If there are individuals who do not find anything in 
me to appreciate, and who seem not to wish to find 
anything, I have no desire that they should find it, 
and I am not hurt that they do not. It is a matter 
of indifference to me. 1 am simply made aware that 
these individuals could never know me, or would 
never know me ; and that I have no sympathy with 
them — and I care nothing about them. 

May 3. — I am very fine — very foxy. This foxiness 
is my strongest force. It is so fine and so deep, 
that no one suspects that it is it that has brought 
about certain results. In its employment I of course 
intend the result to be an enjoyment and a good to 
me. 

Most people, I suppose, are like this — in their 
secret serving of themselves ; but few are so fine as 
I am. Were the necessity to arise, and were its 


FLORINE. 


223 


advantages offered to me, I should be- both a Riche- 
lieu and a Napoleon. I should be a Richelieu in my 
foxiness. I should be a Napoleon in my tenacious 
holding to a purpose. Some of my dearest friends, 
my husband among others, have recognized the 
Napoleon in me. I am not aware that any one sus- 
pects the Richelieu. 


May 24. — Mamma is as happy as she can ever be in 
this world. . She has nothing to do but permit her- 
self to be happy. Aubrey loves her almost as much 
as I love her. Our home is a very happy one. 

Aubrey says his life only began with our mar- 
riage ; and that the past without me was an existence 
without life. No matter where he is, or what he is 
doing, when the gladness for all he possesses in 
possessing me, comes over him, he finds me, and 
taking me in his arms he tells me of all the loving 
thoughts he has in his heart for me. I am like this 
too for him. It is a pity that all husbands are not 
like this — and wives too. It keeps the prose out of 
married life — and the heart-aches out. 


June 11. — I was right and I was not right in think- 
ing I could never be absolutely happy after papa’s 
death. But I am perfectly happy. It seems there is 
happiness and happiness, as well as unhappiness and 


224 


FLORINE. 


unhappiness ; that if after one’s first sorrow and 
first painful disillusion one cannot have whole happi- 
ness, it is possible for a happiness that is not whole 
to be perfect. 

Happiness and happiness is like the radiance of 
the stars and the radiance of the sun. A multitude 
of stars do not light up the universe as the concen- 
trated splendor of one sun illumines it. And there 
may be a succession of suns in the life of each of us. 

June 1 6. — I love the country — there is no doubt 
about that ! I do not ignore my education of the 
country, any more than I ignore my education of 
the drawing-room. I love the country ! I love its 
still beauty, and its still noises ! I love the animal 
life, the insect life — all soulless life ! 

But I love the country people collectively. I do 
not love them individually. I see no poetry in their 
speech, their manners, or their habits. I love only 
to see them as a part of the rural picture — silhouetted , 
as it were on the face of Nature. 

June 18. — What I frankly hate is the common, the 
coarse — all that is opposite to fineness — whether it be 
found among the high or the low people, the rich 
or the poor people. For the fineness of the real 
lady , the fineness of the real gentleman knows no 


FLORINE. 


225 


station. It is as much a birthright as the features 
and the temperament ; it is a natural part of the 
being — and no adverse changes of fortune or of cir- 
cumstances can wholly suppress it; and no educa- 
tion and no culture can wholly produce it. 

June 19. — I find that I am neither suspicious nof 
credulous ; and that I am rarely deceived, and never 
surprised in the actions of others. I believe all men 
and women capable of good and of bad ; of good so 
long as no motive of self interest stronger than their 
desire to do right takes possession of them ; of bad 
so long as no stronger force impels them to do 
right. 

To be able always to restrain one’s self, would 
require great moral force or a fullness of the grace 
of God. Few have enough of the first ; and for 
those who have much of the last, there will always 
be a warfare, to the end — and a sometimes slipping 
back. 

June 23. — Our happiness is due as much to my 
efforts as to Aubrey’s. I am as resolute as he that 
we shall be happy. I do not ask him to give up his 
club or his friends or his habits. He does not ask 
me to make any sacrifice of what I have been or 
what I wish to be. For that reason, perhaps, we 


226 


FLORINE. 


each renounce of our own will what interferes with 
the dear self habits of each other. There are hours 
when I desire to remain alone ; and Aubrey respects 
that desire. When he appears to have the same 
desire, I also equally respect it. This is what I used 
to think a married life should be. 

* 

June 2 6 . — My one girl friend, the only intimate 
friend I have ever had, is coming to-morrow. She 
has been Abroad for years. She is to visit me for 
the rest of the summer. I shall do all I can to make 
her visit to me a happy one. 

June 27. — My friend has come. She is one of 
those flower-like blondes that I adore — when they 
are not sickly, or when they are not catty. And they 
are often one of these, or both of these. I am likely 
to hate them when I make this discovery. 

Cecile is not sickly. She is very sweet in looks 
and in manners. 

Aubrey does not say he likes her. When I ask 
him, he evades a reply. However, he is very decided 
in his likes and dislikes. 

July 6. — Last night when I told Aubrey that I 
would like him to kiss Cecile good-night, he said 


FLORINE. 


227 


very decidedly lie did not like her. All the same, 
he kissed her on the cheek, as I wished him to do. 

If I did not know that Aubrey is to be trusted 
more than I could trust myself, I should suspect this 
promptness to dislike Cecile to be precisely the con- 
trary. As it is, I am curious to know why he does 
not like her. 

July 20. — Cecile is very fine ; but her fineness is in 
small things. I am wrong : she is not fine ; she is 
cunning. She thinks she is deceiving me, playing 
with me. I let her think so. In appearing to be her 
dupe so perfectly that she is persuaded I am, I have 
proved myself of a fineness superior to hers. 

July 24. — Cecile is a study. I have discovered 
that her exquisite little face hides a soul as mercen- 
ary as Shylock’s. The delicacy with which she 
seems to hesitate to accept the slightest favor — once 
it is offered to her — is a cunning disguise for the 
most persistent determination to fleece one of every 
getable thing, to a degree that would be amusing if 
it were not startling. 

One of her tricks is to covet something of mine — 
a jewel, a trifle in lace, a ribbon, a fan, a book — any- 
thing that is dainty, and to express her admiration 
for it ; to say she had once something like it, and 


228 


FLORINE. 


had been so hurt at the losing of it ; or that some 
one had offered her something similar to it, but that 
I knew she was too sensitive to accept a gift from 
any one but a very dear friend. And then she looks 
so unmeaningly, so away-off-ly, that of course I don’t 
pretend to understand her ; I would not wound her 
delicacy by letting her know that I understand her. 
Oli no ! I give her the coveted thing with so much 
tact that she cannot think I suspect her of wanting 
it. I give it to her with so much grace she might 
even imagine she is doing me a favor to accept it. 
And she blushes so prettily, she looks so surprised, 
she hesitates so charmingly — but she takes the gift, 
whatever it may be. 

She thinks no doubt that I am very stupid. But 
I am too fine for her. I am simply experimenting 
on this little blonde animal. She is experimenting on 
me, too. 

July 29. — Cecile is catty. She is always saying how 
much she loves me, how much dearer I am to her 
than any other friend has ever been. This does not 
prevent her from giving little stiletto-like thrusts 
with her tongue, while she looks at me sweetly with 
her baby blue eyes. 

Her infantine sweetness would make me very sick, 
were it not for the antidote of my husband’s love. I 


FLORINE. 


229 


know my power, and that I have nothing to fear. 
But I am indignant for what Cecile supposes she 
can make me suffer — for what she really could make 
me suffer were I like some other gentle, timid, self- 
depreciating wives. 

I shall not say a word to Aubrey of what I see 
and know. I am too proud, and I am also curious 
to know what he will . say, believing that I suspect 
nothing. 

August 5. — Nevertheless, Cecile does make me 
suffer. She makes me suffer in my fear that Aubrey 
may say or do something, without meaning it, that 
will permit her to imagine she is triumphing over 
me. But I shall not put him on his guard. That 
will look like jealousy, and I would rather suffer 
torture than have Aubrey believe I am jealous. 

Heaven knows I am not jealous ; and that I am 
as sure of Aubrey’s supreme love for me, as I am 
sure of mamma’s supreme affection for me. It is my 
pride — my vanity, if you will — and not my heart, 
that suffers. Only a well beloved wife, or a well 
beloved husband can understand this. 

August 10 — Cecile affects a passion for mamma. 
She follows her everywhere. She talks in a beauti- 


230 


FLORINE. 


ful way about me and my happiness ; and of course 
mamma thinks it is sincere. 

And mamma is very fond of Cecile. I never saw 
her so approachable to any one but me. She finds 
Cecile ‘ so affectionate,’ ‘ so impulsive,’ ‘ so childlike ;’ 
and she is always giving her presents, because 
Cecile is ‘so pleased’ with them, and ‘so grateful’ 
for them. 

I feel sarcastic at all this. 

August 12. — This evening Cecile said something 
to Aubrey that made a flush come to his face. He 
made a laughing reply, however, and hastily came 
to me. I could not tell whether Cecile was pleased 
or displeased — so mysterious is the emotion of a 
nature like hers. But she was particularly affection- 
ate to me all the evening. 

I would give anything to know what Cecile said 
to Aubrey ; but I will not ask him. I burned with 
indignation the whole- of the evening ; but I was 
very gay and very gracious to Cecile. 

Later, when Aubrey and I were alone, I was so 
nervous that I spoke sharply to him — in the high, 
sharp voice that is so unbecoming to me, and that I 
always tried to avoid. The tears sprang to his eyes, 
and he looked at me in surprise. 

I told him I had hurt my foot against something, 


FLORINE. 


231 


that it had made me nervous, and that I had spoken 
sharply to him without meaning it. Then I put my 
arms about his neck, and loved him till he smiled 
through his tears. 

But I am ashamed of my ugliness, and I hate 
the little blonde cat for making me speak crossly to 
Aubrey for the first time. 

August 20. — We are at Lake George. Aubrey and 
I were here for a week shortly after our marriage : 
and what a happy week it was ! We have been here 
now a week, with Cecile : and it has been the 
unhappiest week I have spent since my marriage. 

That girl is odious. I would not have believed that 
she could, that any one could make me so unhappy. 
I was so sure of Aubrey’s love that I thought nothing 
could make me doubt him. I do not doubt him ; 
and yet I am as unhappy as if I did. But I doubt 
his tact. I still fear, that without meaning it, he will 
say something or do something that will appear to 
Cecile that she is a temptation to him. For this is 
what she is trying to do — in the sweetest, shyest, 
babyest way : she is trying to trouble the sensibility of 
Aubrey, in a way that may impel him, in an impulsive 
moment, to do something that will give her the 
appearance of a victory. She does not love my hus- 
band — she is too selfish and too calculating for that. 


232 


FLORINE. 


And she knows, I am sure, that she could not make 
him love her ; but she wishes it to appear to me that 
he loves her — she wishes it to humiliate me. 

I want to speak to Aubrey about it, to put him on 
his guard. But I will not ; and Cecile know r s that I will 
not. Now that I see so many small things, infini- 
tesimally small things, between Aubrey and Cecile, I 
am very careful not to appear to see anything. 
Above all things, I want no “ scene.” I would die in 
my pride, I think ; and Cecile knows that, too. 

August 24. — It enrages me now to see Aubrey kiss 
Cecile ‘good-night* and ‘good-morning.* It was at 
my request that he consented at all to do this ; and 
how can I object to it now ? And Cecile takes 
advantage of my seeming indifference, to provoke 
every show of affection, and to extract every special 
attention — by her apparently innocent, appealing, 
childish way — from Aubrey. And the worst of it is 
that she has made mamma love her. Mamma thinks 
she is charming. She said to me this morning : 

“My dear, you have an admirable friend in Cecile. 
She is a very true girl, and very unselfish.” 

Just think of that? There are some hurts I am 
too proud to tell of even to mamma. 

But all th is is spoiling my temper — that I thought 
had become very good. Sometimes I am irritable, 


FLORINE. 


233 


sometimes provokingly silent, often extravagantly 
gay. There are times when I am snubbish to every- 
body. I am even capricious in my treatment of 
Aubrey — sometimes loving, sometimes cold, some^* 
times disagreeable. He looks surprised, troubled — 
unhappy. 

This is the work of Cecile — of the friend I adored. 

August 28. — Thank Heaven, it is ended ! No one 
knows what it is to feel the special happiness that I 
now feel, but one who has felt the special unhappi- 
ness that I have just ceased to feel. 

This is how it ended : last night at dinner Cecile 
made a statement, in her cat-pawy way, that forced 
me to differ with her. Whereupon she affected sur- 
prise and wounded sensibility ; ending her retort by 
an appealing interrogation to Aubrey, that obliged 
him to agree with her against my statement — which 
was correct. 

It was really nothing ; but I was nervous, and my 
imagination magnified the courtesy of Aubrey into 
an affront : besides, there was a wicked look in 
Cecile’s blue eyes : and with an indignant glance at 
Aubrey, I left the table and went to my room. 
Aubrey followed at once. 

“ Florine, this farce must end ! I am sick of this 
so-called friend of yours — for, if you must know it, 


234 


FLORINE. 


she is not your friend. You surely will believe me 
when I tell you I have reasons for saying this — that 
Cecile is false to you. She is envious of your happi- 
ness. She would take my love from you , if she could ; 
but she knows she cannot, and she is enraged at her 
failure. I have tried to keep you from knowing this ; 
I have tried to be to her all that you have asked me 
to be ; for I could not bear to pain you so long as I 
saw you believed in her. But you are not the same 
little wife ; and you are unhappy without knowing 
why. Cecile is the cause— and Cecile must go. 
You must find a way to get rid of her, or I shall find 
a way." 

I was sure Cecile had followed Aubrey ; I was 
sure she was listening at our door. And this is what 
I did ; I cried and I laughed ; I hugged Aubrey 
until he choked ; I called him all the sweet names 
I ever knew ; I said I was so glad he had told me 
everything ; so glad he loved me so much. 

My husband thought I had lost my senses. 

“ So glad I love you so much !” he echoed, with a 
frightened look. “Why, you have never doubted 
my love for you, my darling — you could not doubt 
it?” 

“ No ! no ! no !” I cried. “ Never have I doubted 
your love for me ' It is not that, Aubrey — I am 
only hysterical. I am so surprised, so pained to 


FLORINE. 


235 


know what you have just told me of Cecile. It is 
dreadful, is it not — that one’s best friend should be 
like this ?” 

I would have been cut to pieces rather than to 
have told Aubrey the truth. Besides, Cecile would 
have heard it too ; and now she will never know all 
that I have suffered. And Aubrey will never know 
all that I feared. 

Aubrey says we are to go home to-morrow — and I 
am glad. 

I think, my daughter, if, when you have a hus- 
band, you can be as sure of his affection as I am of 
Aubrey’s, you will be wise to tell him all that you 
fear and all that you suffer. Had I confided my 
trouble to my husband, it would have ended soon 
after it began. 

September 2. — I invented an excuse to send Cecile 
away. This excuse was only a matter of form ; 
Cecile understood that as well as I, and that she 
must go. But all the same, she clung around me 
sobbing — with pain, she said — at the thought of 
parting from me. 

Before leaving, however, she expressed with her 
usual delicacy her desire for a souvenir — “ some 
special souvenir of the happy hours we have passed 
together.” 


23 G 


FLORINE. 


This allusion to the “ happy hours,” was one of 

her dainty, stiletto thrusts. I received it without a 

flutter of the evelids. 

* 

The souvenir she demanded, with a childish 
unconsciousness that she was demanding anything 
but a trifle, was a certain ring — a very handsome 
pearl in a unique setting — that I greatly valued. 
Cecile knew this. No matter ; I gave the ring to 
her ; and she took it with the charming naivete that 
was always a part of her taking. 

And she was aware that I knew everything ! She 
knew that I despised her ! But that is Cecile. 

I shall never love another woman as I loved Cecile. 
I shall like women, but I shall not love them. Not 
that I suspect all women are like Cecile — for there 

- . i 

must be others like me. But I was mistaken in 
thinking I knew Cecile ; I may be mistaken in think- 
ing I know others. 

I do not think I understand women. I have been 
very unhappy in a small way ; I do not wish to be 
unhappy again in that way. I think I am right in 
suspecting that women have a special talent for 
making women unhappy in a way that men have 
not. I shall avoid all chance of suffering through 
them, by avoiding all intimacies with them. 

This is a resolution 1 should not advise others to 


FLORINE. 


237 


adopt. It is a resolution I shall keep to myself for 
myself. 

October 21. — I feel sure that I love God now — 
that I love Him. And that I desire to be good — as 
He would have me good. I feel that God knows 
this, and that He loves me. 

I wonder at people who are ashamed to say they 
believe in God and trust in Him. I could believe 
in nothing less great than God. To Him alone I 
tell all that I feel and all that I desire. 

Thanksgiving Day . — What a blessed Thanksgiving ! 
Shall I be able to look, back upon the coming year 
with as much satisfaction as I look back upon this 
one? I hope so. But I do not bother about the 
future. 

A curious thing happened last night. Aubrey 
came into my room crying as if his heart would 
break. He said he had just dreamed that he was 
going to lose me ; that in this dream I stood before 
him all dressed in black ; and that when he reached 
out to me, I went from him — further and further 
from him, until I was lost to his sight. 

“ Ah !” he said, “should you die I could not live ! 
You are so young, you could do better without me 
—should I die. It was only a dream of losing you, 


238 


ELORINE. 


but it made me feel so lonely I wanted to waken you 
to be sure I have you yet.” 

I told him I was not going to die ; that I was 
going to live a long time — a hundred years : then 
I let him go to sleep in my arms. 

I do not at all feel that I should die young. I can- 
not, however, think of my little body to be laid in 
the ground, without a horrible shudder. 

I shall want to look dainty in my grave clothes. 
I shall want a cream white gown with cream rib- 
bons. And there must be roses about me. I want 
no other flowers but roses. I want the casket cov- 
ered with them, the grave filled up with them. Do 
not forget this, my daughter. 

But no matter how I am begowned and beflowered, 
I shall be eaten by worms, I shall crumble to dust. 
I look at my dainty limbs — at my whole dainty self, 
and it is diabolical to think of this. But even in my 
happiest moments I sometimes think of it. 

I am healthy. I am naturally clean, naturally 
sweet. I am careful of my hair, of my skin, of my 
teeth — of my whole little person ; but it will end 
for me as it will end for everybody — in decay, in 
death. 

This thought ought to take away my vanity ; but 
it does not take it away. In the midst of life and 
health we realize death only in a vague way. The 


FLORINE. 


239 


thought comes and it is a nightmare upon us. 
Something distracts us in the sweet world about us, 
the nightmare leaves us, and we forget death and 
what we shall one last day be. 


240 


FLORINE. 


1880 . 

January i. — I am sure that I hate certain kinds of 
discussions — pig-headed discussions. I hate them 
between people who cannot think alike, who do not 
want to think alike, who are too unlike ever to think 
of the same thing in the same way. 

Of what use is it to try to adjust the unadjustible ? 
The individual who declares a thing is so because 
he believes it so, and will admit of no possible 
mistake in his opinion — that individual is odious to 
me. 

There are some beings who are wiser than others, 
who have more judgment, and who do not venture 
to say a thing is true unless they know it to be true. 
These beings have a right to dominate. But these 
are always the complaisant beings. They are too 
superior to be rude, and too wise to be dogmatic. 
They preface their actual knowledge of a truth with, 
“ As I understand it,” or “ As I believe it.” They 
offer a balm for another’s self love before it is hurt. 
This is always agreeable. 

When I see a person already decided in an 
erroneous opinion that he is right, I do not try to 


FLORINE. 


241 


convince him of his error : I simply suggest, or I am 
silent. 

Do you think this is easy for me to do? You are 
mistaken : I have had to lash myself to it. 

The human intelligence, in its desire to protrude 
itself, is as persistent as the devil. It prefers to 
argue ; it seeks to persuade ; it is resolute to convince. 
It takes much will to pull in the claw of combative- 
ness. But I feel better when it is in, and others 
about me feel better. 

One may wrap one’s decided opinions in cotton 
balls, before throwing them ) but they still hurt — so 
sensitive is self love : and self love is not extinct in 
any mortal man or woman. 

February io. — This evening Aubrey said to me : 

“ I want to tell you something : I have been think- 
thg all day about you, and of what a precious, 
always delightful little woman you are ; and that 
perhaps I do not prove enough to you my apprecia- 
tion of you : perhaps I am too mannish witli you. 
But I want you to know that I do appreciate you ; 
that I am always falling in love with you ; that you 
make me so happy that I often think were I to die 
now, soon, I should still have had more happiness 
than most men have in a whole life-time.” 

Think of a husband who is always unselfish, who 


242 


FLORINE. 


is always giving proofs of his affection — talking like 
this ! That is how modest Aubrey is ; he does not 
know his own value. I told him this, and more too ; 
and I told it to him in the sweetest way I could 
tell it. 

March 17. — In thinking over it I wonder if it is 
simply because lam married that I am so happy. I 
know that I can never express all that I feel of 
thankfulness to God, and of thankfulness to Aubrey : 
to God, that He did not let my mother die ; to 
Aubrey, for the bringing back of all I enjoyed in 
my old luxurious life. 

How good it is to have mamma still with me ! 
And how delicious it is to have no care of life ! Not 
to have to wonder how one is to live — and to worry 
and distress one’s self not to be able to know ! 

Rich people who have never been poor, will find 
this droll that I call it delicious. But rich women 
who have been poor, and poor women who have 
been rich, will know what I mean. 

I can never love God enough, I can never love 
Aubrey enough. 

March 21. — I am wild over Adelaide Neilson. I 
shall doubtless see greater actresses, but I shall 
never see a more lovable one. 


FLORINE. 


243 


Is she great, this delicious looking woman — or is 
she only magnetic ? Is it her artistic worth that puts 
the spell upon us — or is it simply her presence? 
Passion is sometimes more eloquent, more imme- 
diate, more powerful in its power, than genius. 
Genius without passion is a negative force. Passion 
without intelligence is a mighty force. 

Certainly Adelaide Neilson has talent, and she 
has taste. But I suspect the charm of her acting is 
in her beauty, her vivacity, her magnetism — and her 
wholesale coquetry with the public. 

April 2 6. — My daughter, do you wish to know how 
to keep your husband always in love with you ? I 
will tell you : keep on flirting with him. 

What I mean by flirting , is what it means in the 
finest sense of the word. 

You should permit your husband to know that he 
can be sure of your love ; but you should not let 
him always feel that he is sure of it. For one may 
know a thing and not be able at all times to realize 
that one knows it. 

Keep to your old delightful self habits. Do not 
appear to know that you are no longer free as you 
once were : tact can sometimes make a truth of an 
illusion. 


2U 


FLORINE. 


Do not always be tractable ; there are times when 
you may be capricious. 

But whatever you be, do not be really disagree- 
able. Do not let go of the illusion — that you cannot 
be disagreeable — and do not let your husband let go 
of it. Be wilful, be exacting — but be these in a charm- 
ing way. Never be anything else but charming. 

Be very loving — deliciously, irresistibly loving — 
when you are loving ; but let your affection have the 
sweetness of rare old wine — and never the sweetness 
of cordial. True sentiment should be worn always — 
like an armor, but an armor that one must touch 
from time to time to feel sure that it is there. 

Keep on flirting, too, with yourself. That is, 
think enough of yourself to keep yourself lovable : 
to delight yourself with a daily care of your dress, 
and of your person, in a way that will also delight 
your husband. 

The woman of brains and of tact who really wishes 
to preserve the admiration of the man she loves, and 
the heart of him she has won, can do this — and more : 
she will know how to be always a novelty, a mystery 
— a perpetual charm for him. 

All this, that I have confided to you, was once only 
a theory : it is now the result of my observation and 
my experience. To say to others that this is my 
opinion, would be egotism ; but to write it — and for 


FLORINE. 


245 


you — is another thing. And then this is a book of 
my opinions ; and I bequeath it to you for what they 
— the opinions — are worth. 

Entre nous, my daughter, the hints I have just given 
you are as applicable to the husband, as to the wife 
— if he would keep for always the wife’s romantic 
faith and affection. 

July 24. — Aubrey has a fine reputation here — at 
Newport. His social position is as solid as his 
wealth. 

There is nothing sumptuous at our house ; but 
everything is exquisite. Aubrey is very princely 
and very elegant : but the exquisiteness is on my 
side. He does not know how to equal me in that, 
but he thoroughly appreciates it. 

Without actually knowing it, I suspect that the 
success of our entertaining is a subject of envy. 
Our dinners, especially, are much talked of. Noth- 
ing ever happens to spoil the success of them ; and 
Aubrey and I have never even a fear that something 
may happen. To secure this success, and this 
serenity of ourselves, requires more tact and more 
intelligence than some people suppose. One can- 
not be indifferent as one may look ; on the contrary, 
one must be very alert. 

Besides, I have kept my maiden resolution — to 


246 


FLORINE. 


choose my friends ; and our guests are people who 
are agreeable to us and agreeable to one another. 

August 20. — I was right, my daughter, in saying 
to you, long ago, that I have a great deal of judg- 
ment. I am sure, now, that I see things more cor- 
rectly than most people. I go at once to the bottom 
of things ; I see at once the fineness of things. 
There is no fumbling about what I say or do. I 
know that I know a thing, or I know that I do not 
know it. 

Do you know there are more individuals who pos- 
sess correct dispositions, than there are individuals 
who possess correct judgment ? 

August 27. — To bear with apparent cheerfulness 
and patience the disagreeable and the vexing things 
of life, is the philosopher’s triumph ; to bear them 
with real cheerfulness and patience is the Christian’s 
triumph. 

Let me look closely into my heart and see which 
triumph is mine : not wholly one, not wholly the 
other. I am sincere in my prayers to God for grace 
to help me to live wisely and well ; but it is also true* 
that I have learned by experience to control emo- 
tions of which the exhibition would be hurtful or 
useless. 


FLORINE. 


24:7 


My daughter, wliat we call philosophy is often 
simply good sense. 

Poverty was of use to me — it encouraged my nat- 
ural good sense. There are others of the best senti- 
ments in me that I owe to poverty ; and now that 
it — my poverty — is no more, I am grateful to it. 
However, it is only since it is gone that I am aware 
it was of use to me ; so that I am still of the same 
mind : that for the ‘ regulation thing,’ riches are the 
best for me. 

August 28. — Do you think I have acquired my 
coolness and my self control easily ? It has been 
acquired only by mighty and repeated struggling. 

Anybody can acquire this excellence. If he does 
not acquire it, it is because he is too indolent or too 
indifferent. 

August 29. — It is a pity I was not governed as I 
know how to govern others. It would have saved 
me much battling with myself, and much bruising 
of myself. 

Perhaps there are some beings who cannot be 
1 brought up ’ — they must bring up themselves. Per- 
haps I was like this. Mamma used to say very 
often, “ What a strange child you are ? — I do not 
understand you.” Aubrey has often said, “ Florine, 


248 


FLORINE. 


you are a surprising woman ! I do not always 
understand you.” My companions say, “ You are 
not like others that we know : we do not understand 
you.” 

I am not sure that I always understand myself. 
Perhaps I am not natural — perhaps I am unnatural. 
And my intelligence may not be natural — it may be 
unnatural. In that case, if I am to be good, I ought 
to be more than ordinarily good. And what if I 
were to be bad ? — I should probably be extraor- 
dinarily bad. These reflections make me solemn. 

Every human being is individually a solemn 
problem ; and to look at us collectively we appear 
as a multitude of ‘jumping-jacks.' 

August 30 . — With all my fine talk to you of myself, 
I must be very weak — as well as very strong. If I 
were not weak, I should not let a spoiled muffin, for 
this morning’s breakfast, spoil this Whole day’s 
satisfaction. 

September 15. — Oh ! oh ! oh ! Every one of these 
ohs sends a delightful shiver through me. I enjoy 
so much with every sense, that I feel sorry for the 
beings who lack any one sense. 

I was glad to leave Newport. I tire very often of 
people. 


FLORINE. 


249 


My daughter, I may as well confess to you now, 
that all that I once said about going into society 
only when I wished to go — was only talk. 

The truth is, that one must be wholesale in soci- 
ety, or wholesale out of it. It is only an empress, or 
a queen, who can look upon the social movement 
without being a part of it ; every other member of it 
must be a particle of the machinery that keeps up 
the movement. 

I am not out of society, but at present I am out of 
the way of society people. 

I am writing under a tree in the park — where I 
used to sit for hours when a child. A great deal has 
happened since I was a child. I suppose the life of 
every intelligent being would be interesting to read 
if one could read it as it is. Things — curious things 
— happen to everybody. 

How glad I am to live ! How happy I am to sit 
right here and think that I live ! I breathe the 
sweets of many perfumes — and I am glad I live. I 
listen to the chirping of birds and to the sounds of 
insects — and I am glad I live. I look upon the 
beauty of sky and cloud, of meadow and brook — and 
I am glad I live. I taste of delicious things, and of 
savory things — and I am glad I live. I feel all this 
enjoyment with a fulness and sweetness that makes 
me say over and over — I am glad I live ! 


250 


FLORINE. 


I love everything. I love the animals, the flying 
things, the worms, and the bees. 

I see a hornet’s nest from where I sit. A hornet’s 
nest is a wonderful thing. 

I admire even the pretty spotted, and the striped 
snakes. A pig is not handsome, but it is comical. 

All the dumb speaking things know when one is 
friendly to them. Bees do not harm me. Insects do 
not tease me. 

I not only love everything of this country life, but 
I love everybody belonging to it. I love them in a 
grandmotherly way. Some of them that were 
children when I was a child, have now children of 
their own. 

I speak to the humblest man, and woman, and 
child. If they are clean I offer them my hand, and 
I smile upon them. I am still of the opinion that I 
should make a good governor of the people. 

You remember of my telling you, long ago, what 
I should do were I the President. Well, there is 
something else I should do: I should not only 
‘encourage’ a universal courtesy — I should make 
courtesy an absolute law. I should put a stop to the 
elbowing element — where there is room for everv- 
body ; and to the jostling and jamming in railway 
and street cars : and to the gruffness and rudeness 


FLORINE. 


251 


of car conductors. I should not permit the hurry- 
ing anywhere of one individual over another. 

Entre nous , my daughter, I should make another 
law : that children should be taught in the public 
schools to speak through the throat — and not through 
the head or the nose. I should make this law as 
arbitrary as Bible reading. We should then have 
not only a courteous people, but a sweet-voiced 
people. 

November 20. — Bernhardt is great. No matter 
what any one has said or may say to the contrary, I 
shall be of this opinion : that Bernhardt is great. 

What is all this about the immorality of the 
woman ? What is this frowning down upon her of 
correct people? This turning up at her of virtuous 
noses ? This indignation against her of cleaner 
souled beings ? 

My daughter, I think it is an immense envy — a 
universal envy : it is the desire, inherent to a small 
degree or a large degree in every individual, to 
detract from the greatness of some other individual. 

For the soul of Sarah — let us leave it to God. We 
have to do only with her art , and not with her 
morality. 

Bernhardt is a natural actress and a studied one. 
Genius created her, art has perfected her. 


252 


FLORINE. 


Besides, she has all the cunning, the cleverness, 
the subtlety — that genius often has not. Or, if her 
power is not genius, through the sorcery of her mar- 
velous will and courage, she has made of it genius. 

I may as well say to you, my daughter, — since it 
is only to you — that for this wondrous caressing voice 
of Sarah’s — she gives us too much of it : its sweet- 
ness might be varied. And there is here and there a 
suspicion of the ranter : there is — when we least 
expect it — an upward plunge, from the musical low 
notes to the screeching upper notes, that is some- 
what startling. 

December 1 6. — Mamma is very ill. She does not 
suffer much pain, but she is daily growing weaker. 
I know she will never recover from this weakness ; 
she knows it too. She said to-day : 

“ Florine, I want you to promise me that you will 
not grieve for my going — that you will be resigned 
to it. Your reluctance to have me go is all that now 
gives me pain. We have talked it over and over — 
my sometime going from you ; and now that it is 
soon to come, I want you to let me go happily ; I 
want you to promise me you will not grieve.” 

And with my eyes blinded with tears, I promised. 

It will take constant praying to enable me to keep 
that promise. 


FLORINE. 


253 


Mamma wants to die. She is ‘ tired of living,’ she 
says. How strange that one should be tired of liv- 
ing — one who is rich and beloved as mamma is ! 

I have never been ill enough or unhappy enough 
to want to die — to want to leave entirely and forever 
this world, even if in an insane moment I might have 
left it. 

And I remember the years when life was nothing 
but happiness for mamma. I remember too that 
she had none of the suffering from poverty that I 
suffered. And yet she wants to die. 

There must be a sorrow that never heals ; a 
bereavement of loving that no other loving can 
replace. 


254 : 


FLORINE. 


1881 . 


January n. — Nothing could be more sadly sweet 
than this gradual fading away of my mother’s life. 
She talks to me in so loving and quiet a way of 
going to Heaven, that it takes from her dying alt 
thoughts of death. It seems to me that some solemn 
evening I shall see her vanish from me, without 
knowing she is dead. 

March 13. — Mamma is gone. It was as I thought 
it would be : she went from us so quietly we only 
knew it when she had gone. 

It was in the evening — with my arms about her, 
her head resting on my heart. We had been talking 
of her going from me — as we had talked of it every 
day. After a while she said : 

“ I should like to sleep.” 

“Good-night, my own mamma,” I said, kissing 
her. 

“ Good-night, my child,” and smiling upon me, 
she closed her eyes — and slept. 

And still upon my heart she slept, and on, and on 
— into a deeper sleep. 


FLORINE. 


255 


I knew, after a time, she would not waken from that 
sleep. And yet I could not speak, I could not weep. 

Do you know what I believe ? That in the hush 
of those solemn moments — in which I could not 
weep — angels were there ; and when they went 
away they bore my mother’s spirit too with them. 

This impression has been so strong that I have 
not been able to think of mamma as a lifeless body. 
All through these horrible days, before we laid her 
forever away — days I once thought I could never 
live through — my mind has turned constantly to 
Heaven ; and I think of mamma, I see her, only as 
above me, beyond me, radiant, glorified — immortal. 

April 1 6. — This is what mamma’s death has done 
for me : it has taken from me all the terror of dying, 
and all the gloomy sentiment that used to torture 
me in thinking of the grave. 

Life is not less sweet to me ; I still desire to live 
many years. But I have a greater desire to make 
sure of Heaven. Nothing could make me lose 
sight of this — the belief that mamma is in Heaven ; 
that to see her again, to be with her again, I must 
make sure of Heaven. 

Is this blasphemy? Is it adoring my mother 
instead of adoring God ? I think not. I think that 


256 


FLORINE. 


God intends this peculiar sorrow to be of this good 
to us — to attract us to Heaven. 

We are human ; we cling to human affections. 
The beings we have loved, that we have talked with, 
that we have lived with — have passed from our sight 
and our touch to the Unseen and the Unknown : and 
is it not natural that we should have the desire — 
even the curiosity — to pass also one day to that 
Unseen and that Unknown ? 

May 5. — We are going Abroad. I cannot bear 
the scenes that remind me of mamma. I would not 
bring her back to this life — to me — if I could ; 
but it is too much pain to take up the habits of liv- 
ing without her, in the home I have always lived 
with her. New sights and new scenes will give me 
new courage. 

Then, too, Aubrey’s physician advises him to 
travel. He feels a change in his usual robust health. 
He has never been ill, and this slight indisposition 
annoys him, and troubles him. 

Aubrey is older than mamma was ; he was the 
same age of my papa. Do you know that I never 
have thought of this, until now ? Why — I might 
have been Aubrey’s daughter instead of papa’s 
daughter ! — and I am Aubrey’s wife. 


FLORINE. 


257 


1882 . 


November 7. — It is eighteen months since I have 
written in my Journal. We have been traveling 
from place to place, and I have had no time to write. 
Besides, to write in my Journal I must think reason- 
ably and steadily, and in thinking I thought too 
much of mamma. I try to avoid suffering. 

But this is only partly true ; for we have been 
home four months — and I could have written at any 
time, had I wished to write. 

I can never tell a lie for myself. To save another 
from actual pain, I would evade the truth — success- 
fully evade it. But for myself, I must tell nothing, 
if I may not tell the truth. 

Jt has always been my way, when I am thinking 
or dding something that my conscience vaguely dis- 
approves, to stop writing in my Journal, until I can 
write precisely as I feel, or until I can clearly define 
what I feel — whether it be a wrong feeling, and 
whether I am responsible for it. 

I have not yet been able clearly to define what 
I feel, or to decide that it is a wrong feeling : and 


258 


FLORINE. 


I can no longer resist the desire to write in my 
Journal. 

Aubrey’s health was not improved Abroad ; and 
he is glad to be at home again. I thought I 
should be glad, too ; but I do not feel glad. 

Since our return Aubrey’s health is still more 
delicate. He is a changed man. 

I have not been idle : I have written another 
book. It has had a large success. I have had 
money from it — now when I am rich, and have no 
need of money. 

I am not satisfied with this book. It is strong, and 
it is curious. It is as good of its kind as I can pro- 
duce ; but I can produce a better kind. It has more 
of my head than my heart. I reasoned it out more 
than I felt it out. I can do better than this. 

I am not at all sensitive to the criticisms of this 
book. I do not care whether the public likes it or 
dislikes it, praises it or condemns it. 

I am not sure that I know why this indifference is 
— unless suffering makes us ultimately less sensitive. 
But I am not aware that my temperament is really 
less sensitive. I suspect that I have simply become 
more philosophical ; that I have come to know that 
the world cares nothing for the individual torments 
it causes, and that it is useless to permit ourselves 
to be tormented. 


FLORINE. 


259 


December 17. — I am restless. I begin to long for 
some other life. If there was such a thing as being 
too happy, I should think I am too happy. 

I suspect there is something wrong about the hap- 
piness that one is discontented with. I suspect that 
the happiness that one imagines one has too much of, 
has a worm about the root — that one might find if 
one would dig for it, or could have the courage to 
dig for it. 

One thing — if Aubrey were well, if he were as he 
used to be, I think I should never have begun to 
think of the difference in our ages. But he is so 
changed, so much older, that I cannot help thinking 
of it. 


260 


FLORINE. 


1883 . 

January 3. — I am teaching in the Mission School. 
I try to like it, I pray to like it — but I do not like it. 

God forgive me ! — but I think some people have 
enough to do to save themselves. There are people 
who are born good — with a sort of negative good- 
ness. They have neither the temperament nor the 
desire to be anything but good. 

To get to Heaven myself, I shall have a great deal 
of work to do for myself. My own passionate heart 
needs constant watching. 

January 19. — I should like to choose my own work — 
a useful work, a Christian work. 

All this winter I go to read to a room full of very 
poor women. We are all in one room — and it is not 
a large room. Some of the poor creatures are so 
asthmatic and sickly they cannot have the windows 
open. I come home every time with a nausea in my 
stomach ; the odor of the tenement house accom- 
panies me. I am cross. I am unhappy in mind and 
body till I have taken a bath, perfumed my whole 


FLORINE. 


261 


person, and shaken the dust, as it were, from my 
memory and from myself, 

I hate myself for this disgust of the senses ; this 
is not piety : and to punish myself I go back the 
next week and suffer it all over again. 

There is something curious about this desire to 
suffer for my lack of self denial. I would make a 
good Catholic ; I enjoy suffering for the wrong I 
have done. If my fits of self humili'ation and self 
accusing were of long duration, I should be another 
Saint Simeon. There are times when I have the 
inclination to dash my head against a stone — pro- 
vided it would not quite kill me. I should want to 
live to repeat the heroic treatment. 

It would seem, Florine, that there are only certain 
kinds of suffering you would be willing to undergo ; 
and that you would wish to choose your chastise- 
ment from the Lord, as well as your work for Him. 
It seems, also, that you are willing to suffer for the 
sake of the good you may do, provided you have a 
soft and easy place to suffer in — provided it does not 
offend your daintiness of sense ! 

O God, forgive me ! and fill me with the desire to 
be entirely good — without reserving to myself a 
special way to be good ! Thou seest in my heart, 
even while I pray, a wish to do only a part of Thy 
will. Give me the wish to do Thy whole will ! 


262 


FLORINE. 


Make me all that I ought to be — all that I have not 
wholly the desire to be ! 

May 3. — I never was so glad to come to the country. 
We are not to receive this summer. Aubrey thinks, 
now, that quiet is absolutely necessary for him. 

I have been greatly alarmed about Aubrey. But 
all the physicians, whom I have consulted, assure me 
that his malady is not dangerous, and that it will not 
become much worse. It is dreadful not to be 
entirely well — to be only half well ! 

May 4. — Sometimes I wonder too much, and I 
desire too much to go to the bottom of things. Often 
I trouble situations that seem to have been settled. 

This is what I have been asking myself : is it my 
own happiness that is making me happiest, in these 
days — or is it the happiness of making my husband 
happy ? Have I as much happiness , at present , to make 
me happy ? 

These are the vexed questions that trouble me — 
that have for a long time troubled me. It is because 
of this troubling — that I cannot precisely define — 
that I have not written in my Journal. 

May 24. — I have had a caprice — a caprice that 


FLORINE. 


263 


is now a reality, that has now a form : it is a Swiss 
chdlet. 

When I was in Switzerland, these pretty toy- 
houses were a perpetual delight to me. I have now 
one of my own. It is in the wildest of places. 
Perched high up among the rocks, amid a wilderness 
of flowers, it has precisely the effect of a Swiss 
chdlet. There is even a small cascade, that shining 
and singing falls down over the rocks and into the 
valley below. 

June i. — Since the chalet is finished, no one but 
myself has been here. On one side is an inacces- 
sible cliff. One reaches it — the chdlet — only from 
our grounds, and by a single and steep’ foot-path. 
Aubrey has not yet seen it. The climbing to it 
fatigued him before he was half way up the path ; 
and he is waiting till he is stronger, before he makes 
another attempt. Aubrey has never liked walking ; 
and I have always liked it. 

This little house is my own. Here is where I 
abandon myself to my feelings and to my reflections. 
Here is where I subject myself to a frank and a 
severe analysis. I am only myself here to myself. 

And what are these feelings ? Indifference — 
almost dislike for the life about me. What is the 
result of this analysis ? That I am not happy ; that 


264 


FLORINE. 


I am no longer satisfied with comfort, with luxury, 
with good service, and with order in the household ; 
that I am no longer contented with people, with 
admiration, with my books, with my writing. 

What, then, is wanting to make the full enjoyment 
of my life ? 

Why am I no longer happy in thinking of my 
marriage? I was happy — I was entirely happy. 
Aubrey loves me more than ever — but alas ! with no 
longer the same loving : and I am not satisfied with 
this change in his loving. 

Is love then a condition, only — a condition that 
thrives only on enjoyment ? Or is it an illusion that 
lives only on passion ? Is nothing real ? Is nothing 
enduring? Do we change? Or is it the condition 
that changes ? 

No matter ; the result is the same — I am no 
longer happy. 

June 5.^-My husband is more than twice my age. 
It is only lately that I keep thinking of the differ- 
ence in our ages. 

I am afraid to write the thoughts that come to 
me. I have been praying and trying not to think 
them — so that I might take up my old life as it was. 
But I keep on thinking. 

I never have analyzed the real sentiment in my' 


FLORINE. 


265 


neart for Aubrey, until now. If it had been any one 
else than Aubrey Willis, I should have gone — as is 
my habit to do — at once to the ‘bottom of things.’ 
But I grew up knowing Aubrey — I have always 
known him ; he was a part of my home, and of my 
family affection. 

Is it possible that I mistook a profound affection — 
a filial affection, for love ? No ; I was happy with 
him : I owed to him a happiness I never dreamed of 
in thinking of my marriage. And he is still very 
dear to me — as no one else, since mamma died, is 
dear to me. Then my affection remains ; but the 
enjoyment is gone . 

Was it love that 1 loved — and not Aubrey ? 

I have a guilty secret. I feel like a criminal. I 
feel that this Journal is not safe under lock and key. 
But this is how I feel ; and how I cannot help but 
feel. 

June 12. — I am jealous of my ch&let . No one shall 
come here but myself. I am very comfortable. I 
have an easy chair, a table, and a couch. For the 
rest, I have arranged it prettily, and according to 
my fancy ; and I never was so pleased with anything 
of my own. 

This is the only hiding-place where I have the 
to write what I think in these days. To 


courage 


266 


FLORINE. 


think them under the same roof with Aubrey, would 
add a sense of the dreadful to the deplorable. Here 
I may say to the solitude, to the murmuring water, 
to the blossoms, to my soul, to my God — “ I am not 
happy !” Anywhere else I should fear that others 
were hearing my thoughts ; that Aubrey’s grave 
affection, the household’s silent service — the very 
walls would whisper, “Treason ! treason ! treason !” 

June 13. — What right have I to cry out against the 
loving of this noble man ? His loving is higher than 
mine — it is more of Heaven than mine. I am not 
sure but that I myself am the cause of what I feel of 
disappointment in the present. I am not sure but 
that I am so constituted that no loving could always 
satisfy me — seeing I am no longer satisfied with 
Aubrey’s loving. 

Is all of human loving simply a passing condition ? 
I suspect this is how it is : that it changes because 
two beings do not keep on loving alike — with equal 
ardor and with equal enjoyment. One of them 
comes to love, not less — but in a different way : and 
this causes unhappiness to the other — that still loves 
in the same way. For one of them, the rapturous loving 
subsides to a tranquil enjoyment ; the blissful union 
to a comforting comradeship. Passion is gone, but 


FLORINE. 


267 


affection remains. Ecstasy is denied him, but repose 
is given to him. 

And I ? I am not done with the delights of loving ! 
The enjoyments of friendship do not satisfy me ! 
The repose of affection is not enough for me ! 

My God ! — I am very unhappy ! 

June 18. — Ah me ! I am slipping away from my 
husband ! I am slipping away from him with no 
wish, and no will of my own. Fie is no longer 
strong, and manly, and healthful, and sweet ! He 
leans on my strength. And I — Heaven forgive me ! 
I feel no gladness in his loving of me. 

What am I to do through the years and the years 
to come — I, so strong, so healthful, so full of sensu- 
ous life ? 

I understand now all that I am — all that my papa 
years ago meant in talking of the enjoyment of my 
happiness, and the torment of my pain. 

Is it then true that I am no longer happy with 
Aubrey? That I can never again be happy with 
him ? Do I then know the secret of a happy mar- 
riage — and the secret of an unhappy one ? 

Then it is not alone affection, and unselfishness, and 
goodness that make a lovable husband and a happy 
marriage ! It is with these also the husband’s power 
to love — his passion to love. 


268 


FLORINE. 


Stop ! let me think : now that I have come to 
believe this — would I now marry, if I could, any one 
of the warm-hearted, impulsive, loving youths I 
might have married before I married Aubrey ? No ! 
a thousand times, no ! 

At present, we do not ‘ entertain but Aubrey is 
fond of the younger men, and many of them come 
from the city to dine with us, and to pass the night 
at our house. These men are all strong in youth 
and health : would I marry any one of them ? I 
would not. I could not love any of them as I love 
Aubrey. 

Then it seems that to love sincerely one must love 
one’s husband as I love Aubrey : but to be happy — 
one must love him another way, too. It seems that 
love to endure and to satisfy, must be reasonable 
and unreasonable ; reposeful and not reposeful : 
that to be always happy one must love and be loved 
with affection and with fervor. 

Then two beings who marry should be of the 
same age and of the same temperament. They 
should be equally healthy and equally ardent. 
Mamma, I am sure, thought of this when I married 
Aubrey. 

I have a fear, more than a fear — I have a terror of 
the future, now that I seem only to have become 
acquainted with myself. 


FLORINE. 


269 


Now — God of my mother ! show me to myself 
entirely as I am ! Make me to know precisely what 
I have to fear ! 

June 22. — I pray with all my might to love 
Aubrey — to be everything to him. I do love him, 
but I am not happy with him. I love him as a 
dear friend, as a father — but not as a lover. My 
daughter, you cannot understand this — this feeling 
that I feel for Aubrey. 

Aubrey has grown very thin and very weak. He 
is sensitive to this change, I make it a study to 
make him feel that I do not — in a selfish way — mind 
this change. God will forgive me this deception — 
that makes so good a man content. 

I study hovv to make him happy. I am more 
affectionate than ever, and less capricious, and less 
exacting. I do everything for him, and I persuade 
him that I am glad he cannot now do anything for 
me. I try in the subtlest way to convince him that 
I am no longer impulsive — no longer passionate. 

He would suffer were he to know the truth ; and 
I take satisfaction in suffering myself, while he thinks 
I am happy. It is my punishment for myself, for 
allowing myself to be miserable when I have a 
devoted husband, a beautiful home, health and 


270 


FLORINE. 


friends — everything, so far as the world can see, to 
make me happy. 

This life, that I now lead, is to be my cross. I 
must think of what others have denied themselves, 
and learn to deny myself. Learn to deny myself ? 
I must deny myself — there is no other way ! 

But, will I go on murmuring at my cross ? or shall 
I by much praying have strength to bear it ? Some- 
time this torment of the sense must cease : every- 
thing ceases with time — alas ! life itself must cease. 

June 28. — I am resolved to be strong. I get up 
early in the morning. I sing, I play the piano, I 
read, and I walk till I am exhausted. 

I try to make Aubrey feel my sincere desire to 
make him happy. He does feel it. He assures me 
again and again that he never was happier ; and he 
looks his happiness despite his lassitude. 

I do not let myself think. When I begin to think, 
I fall down on my knees and pray. I pray with all 
my might — with my whole soul in my prayers. 
Then I feel better. I feel nearer Heaven. Some- 
times I think Christ is close to me — so much of 
peace is left with me. 

This is the only way to do happily one's duty ; 
this is the only way to be at peace with one’s refrac- 


FLORINE. 


271 

tory self. One can do any right thing with one’s 
self, with God’s help. 

When I feel this way — this good way— I wonder 
how I can feel any other way : how I can feel as I 
do when I have no peace. 

July 5. — The demon is let loose again. Why do I 
not ask God to take from me the sense of this enjoy- 
ment, and the memory of it ? I can not. I would 
not be sincere in asking it ; God, who knows my 
heart, knows I would not be sincere. 

But what shall I do — what shall I do ? I begin to 
fear that I shall go on praying and longing — pray- 
ing and longing, to the end. 

July 7. — I do want to make sure of Heaven. 
There are times, when I lie down at night, when my 
heart is so full of peace, when I am so much the 
conqueror of myself, that I feel sure, were I to die 
that night, I should go to Heaven. But there are 
other times when the madness of a tortured sense 
takes all thoughts of God and Heaven, of duty and 
self-denial from me— and leaves me alone with a 
tormenting and unconquerable spirit. 

Should I die then — would all my praying and my 
right feeling, of days and days, count for nothing? 


272 


F LORINE. 


July ii. — N ono lias come — my fate lias come ! To 
think that I had never forgotten him ! To think 
there has always been in my heart a memory for 
him, so mysteriously precious that I have had the 
desire to withhold it even from you, my daughter ! 
To think that I have not seen him since we parted 
in tears years ago ! To think that I have never 
heard from him, and never expected to see him — and 
that now he has come ! 

Now — when I am no longer at peace with my life, 
and no longer at peace with myself ! When my 
sense is troubled and my soul is afraid ! When I 
pray to God to be safe, yet feel that I am not safe ! 
— to think that Nono has come ! Nono, so young 
and so strong — and beautiful as a dream ! Nono — 
the one being in the whole world that should not 
come ! 

If I should try to tell you all I felt at the first sight 
of Nono — I could not tell you. It was as if the past 
of my life, the present, and the future were pivoted 
together by his coming, and were revolving around 
and around in a mad way. 

At the first touch of his hand, the years that had 
been seemed to sweep away. My daughter, it is as 
if there has been no time for me — but that dear time 
long ago with him ; and this time now with him. 


FLORINE. 


273 


July 12 . — It seems that it was at Aubrey’s special 
invitation that Nono is here. Aubrey knew of his 
arrival in New York, and at once wrote to him. He 
remembered Nono’s visit to our house, when Nono 
and I were children. He thought I should be pleased 
to have Nono here ; that it would be a surprise for 
me. 

He was right. No surprise for me has ever been 
so complete. 

July 1 6. — I have never seen Aubrey so fond of 
any one as he is of Nono. I leave them together as 
often as I can. 

Last night Aubrey, in his sweet way, reproached 
me for my lack of cordiality towards Nono. 

Then I do indeed appear to be indifferent to Nono ! 
That is what I wish to appear. How deceitful I am ! 

And Nono ? His face is the face of a sphinx — as 
unreadable. 

July 18. — Aubrey looks more contented than I 
have seen him since his feebleness. He seems glad 
that he can now enjoy the languor and the indiffer- 
ence of an invalid — without thinking that, for my 
sake, these are privileges he must not enjoy. He 
thinks that Nono is sufficient to entertain me. He 
imagines I am amused. It is a dangerous amuse- 


274 


FLORINE. 


ment to be with Nono. But other men come here, 
and other men amuse me ; and I have had no 
thought of danger. 

My daughter, I know already how it is ; it is that 
the simple presence of this man, is to me what noth- 
ing of any man has ever been to me. 

July 19. — Heaven and earth — or a malicious des- 
tiny that is neither of Heaven nor of earth — push 
me toward something that I seem to be trying to 
avoid. 

This morning Aubrey invited Nono to stay with 
us till November — as long as we shall stay. “ For 
my happiness — and Florine’s,” he added, appealing 
to me. 

What could I do but repeat the invitation ? When 
Nono hesitated to accept, Aubrey became nervous. 

God knows ! — I think I am thankful he did accept. 

July 22. — I am sure, now, that Nono avoids being 
alone with me, as often as I avoid being alone with 
him. Is it his prudence or his indifference that 
prompts him to do this ? 

However, Aubrey invents ways to keep Nono and 
me together. Thus, without knowing it, Aubrey is 
cruel to himself and to me. But his fearlessness 
proves his immense faith in my loyalty and my love. 


FLORINE. 


275 


July 25. — Do you know that I never was so childishly 
happy since I was a child ? It is because I am with 
Nono. 

Do you think that I have ever forgotten Nono’s 
kiss ? It is the one memory that I have kept to 
myself. 

But we have not once spoken of the past. Per- 
haps Nono has forgotten it. But I think he has not 
forgotten it ; and that it is the same mysterious 
motive in each of us that prompts us to be silent. 

When we are alone we talk of everything that 
everybody might hear ; only, it is a sort of babbling 
that everybody would not care to hear. But no 
matter what we talk about — we are amused, and we 
are contented. It seems to be simply the delight of 
being near each other. 

Nono was the one playmate I was never tired of ; 
he is the one being I never tire of. There are times 
when I want to get away from others — to be alone 
with myself. I go away from Nono because I think 
it is wise to go — but I never have the desire to go. 

When I am near to him, it seems to me that I am 
simply near to another of myself — a self that makes 
me better to know myself, better to enjoy all that is 
of myself. And to feel like this in thinking of Nono, 
it seems to me that Nono must feel like this in think- 
ing of me. 


276 


FLORINE. 


July 27. — I not only feel childishly happy — I feel 
like a child : a child that has found her playmate. 
Now, that I think of it, Aubrey makes me older than 
I am. He is always dignified. I could never ven- 
ture to be ironical or playful with him. I must be 
gravely in earnest. I must say only what I mean. 
There can be no badinage , no good natured quarrel- 
ling, no seeming to be something else than what one 
is — none of the delightful nothings that stimulate 
the intelligence and the sentiment of two beings. 

Nono also has the dignity of a prince — but he is a 
very gay prince. We — Nono and I — often play little 
comedies of our own imagining. If there is more 
than a dual action, we take successively every part. 
This is amusing to us. Sometimes we laugh mer- 
rily. 

Think, if Aubrey and I should behave like this ! 
Think of any one seeing Nono and me behave like 
this ! Before others we are reserved, almost 
haughty. 

July 30. — I am sure now that it is from a subtle 
and silent understanding between ns, that Nono 
and I do not speak of the past. I know it, because 
to-day when we wandered to the park, and to the 
spot under the clump of trees where Nono once 
kissed me, we both stopped abruptly, and both were 


FLORINE. 


277 


silent. Glancing at Nono, I saw a faint flush pass 
over his face. With a sudden impulse he reached for 
my hand, which I with a responsive impulse gave to 
him. Then, without a word, we walked rapidly away 
— as if fleeing from a memory. 

August 2. — It is as I have said : Aubrey looks upon 
Nono’s presence as a relief. He no longer exerts 
himself to walk about the lawn with me. He con- 
tents himself with swinging in the hammock, or reclin- 
ing on an easy chair. Often he does not leave the 
veranda for the entire day — except to recline indoors. 
He is thankful to have Nono go everywhere with 
me. 

August 4. — Last evening Aubrey sent us for a walk. 
Aubrey promised not to leave his seat by the window ; 
and we walked where we could see him at every turn. 
But — my God ! What does Aubrey think we are 
made of — Nono and I ? Nono, so full of healthful 
life, and so sweet that his very presence is a caress ! 
And I ? Aubrey himself once said — in defining love 
— u You, Florine — -you are love !” 

During that walk I did not know what I was say- 
ing ; and what Nono said was senseless. That 
proved to me that he knew as little as I what he was 
saying. Our minds were in that curious whirl that 


278 


FLORINE. 


needs only a word, or a look, or a touch to bring 
about another curious whirling that is not of the 
mind — but of the sense. 

When we came in, Aubrey, reaching out as we 
approached him, drew me towards him and kissed 
me. 

For the first time I wished my husband had not 
kissed me. Involuntarily I glanced at Nono. His 
face was whiter than the moonlight, and he seemed 
to make an effort to stand upright. 

I know how this is going to end ! We are whirling 
around in a blind way — Nono and I ; but in a cur- 
rent that is surely bringing us nearer and nearer each 
other — that is, nearer and nearer our ruin. And I 
cannot resist the fatal desire to keep whirling. Alas ! 
— he cannot. I see this now — when it is too late to 
see it. 

August 9. — Was I not right ? Is there not a mali- 
cious force at work to destroy the peace of my home 
— to make it impossible for me to be contented with 
my husband as I once was contented with him ? 

Since that evening in the park I have invented 
a thousand excuses not to be alone with Nono. 
But of what use is it? Aubrey, with a persistency 
that seems demoniacal, invents a thousand other 
excuses that oblige me to be with Nono. And do 


FLORINE. 


279 


you think I am wholly sorry for this ? The truth 
is, that with my fear of it, I am also glad of it. 

To-day I took Nono up the mountain path, and 
to the chalet. I said once that no one should go 
there but myself. Ah well ! — that was before Nono 
came. I had not told him of this chalet ; and it was 
such a pleasure to see his surprise and his delight. 

The chalet is covered with clambering rose vines. 
The roses are perpetually blooming. Their perfume 
has the effect of very fine wine. Nono’s nearness to 
me has the same effect. In brushing an insect from 
his neck, I felt his warm white flesh quiver at my 
touch. It was like an electric shock through my 
whole body — a delightful shock. 

The chalet is a veritable rose bower — a lover’s 
bower. There is danger in the loneliness and the 
sweetness of the place. I shall take care not to go 
there again with Nono. 

August 12. — Ah me! It is no longer possible 
for me to be happy in the old way with Aubrey ! 
No longer possible to be tranquil — to be good ! 
Nono is my fate. I must love him ! And he 
loves me — I am sure of it. How his face pales 
at every loving word, at every caress of Aubrey’s ! 

I pity his suffering ; and my husband’s caresses are 
painful to me. 


280 


FLORINE. 


Now is the time Nono should flee. He would 
flee, no doubt, if he knew how much I was loving 
him. But I can effectually hide what I feel : this is 
an art with me. 

Would it not be better to tell Nono the truth, and 
ask him to go away ? But should it be as I suspect 
— that he loves me ; and should he not have the 
courage to go — I should not have the courage to 
make him go. 

Well, then I should tell Aubrey, and let him find 
a way to end it. Tell Aubrey what? — that he must 
help me to keep loving himself ? I would be burned 
at the stake rather than give him the pain of doubt- 
ing my love ! Shall I tell him that I am no longer 
sure of myself? Shall I permit him to discover this 
weakness in the one he adores ? Oh, the shame of 
this shame ! I feel sorry at the thought of the 
shame and the pain it would bring to him ! 

I cannot tell Aubrey — not yet ! I am not yet 
humble enough. There must be some other way to 
end it. When I am sure there is no other way — I 
shall tell him the truth : at the very latest moment 
I will tell him. 

God of Heaven! — what if in the future I should 
be so unhappy and so helpless, as to look back with 
the regret of a lost soul to this way — that seems so 


FLORINE. 


281 


appalling now — as to the one safe way — the God 
given way ? 

August 14. — I have a terror in my soul when away 
from Nono — in thinking of how I feel when near to 
him. He is so blonde — he is so perfect. The white- 
ness of his neck is like my mother’s — as I first 
remember her. The dreamy softness of his eyes is 
like hers too. The delicious fairness of his wrists, the 
flower-like mouth — there is in the sight of these, and 
in the sound of his voice — in all that is of him, a 
subtle sweetness and sensuousness that intoxicates 
me. 

Nono is myself : he is me in another self. He is 
as dainty and as perfect as myself, God, forgive 
me ! I am loving this man’s body as I am loving his 
mind and his heart — with my whole soul and my 
whole self ! 

And what if I urn all for him that he is for me ? 

He should go away ! — No ! the thought strikes a 
coldness as of death to my heart ! I could never, 
never, never give him up ! 

August 15. — O my God ! do I want not to be saved, 
more than I want to be saved ? I thought I was a 
true Christian, I thought I was strong — I thought I 
was good ! I know now there are times when it is 


282 


FLORINE. 


a million times harder to be good than at other 
times. 

I understand now the absolute sense of the Pub- 
lican’s prayer : “ Have mercy upon me, O Lord, for 

I am a miserable sinner !” 

I am indeed a miserable sinner. 

But at other moments I forget this. I go down 
stairs — and Nono is there. My senses are awhirl, 
and I am no longer myself. I do not think sanely as 
I am thinking now : I do not think at all — I feel . 

August 1 6. — Do you know what I want ? I want 
God to save me in spite of myself. 

When I was a very little child I often cried for cer- 
tain sugared fruits, that made me sick. When 
mamma refused to give them to me, I cried all the 
more for them. But it was better to be well than 
ill. I knew that later, and was glad that mamma 
had refused the sweets. 

If God would save me in spite of myself : I should 
not be grateful now — but later, perhaps, I would be 
glad. 

At/gust 17. — This afternoon Nono wished to go 
to the chalet . I refused to go. Was it wiser to’go, as 
we did, to that memory haunted spot in the park ? 

We talked wearily. It has come to this — that 


FLORINE. 


283 


Nona and I cannot always seem gay. I suppose, too, 
that it could not always have gone on as it has until 
to-day — thinking and feeling, with never a word of 
what we think and feel. 

“ Florine, it was here, under this clump of trees — 
that I once kissed you. That was long ago — very 
long ago ; but I have never forgotten the kiss. And 
you, Florine, do you remember it ?” 

“ Yes ; I remember it. I have never ceased to 
remember it.” 

Again the impulsive reaching out of hand to hand. 
I was very near to him ; so near I should have 
swooned with joy had I been nearer : but I turned 
and fled — to my home, to Aubrey. 

“ Save me, Aubrey S Save me ! -save me from 
myself !” 

God knows, in that one moment I was humble — 
and I was sincere ! 

“ What is this ? Oh, it is you, Florine ! Are you 
saying your prayers — here, by my couch ? Dear 
child ! — say a prayer for me.” 

He had not heard my cry. He had been asleep. 
Explain it if you can — the quick revulsion that took 
away at once my self abasement and my courage ; 
and that took away the moment, too, that held my 
chance of safety. 

You see, my daughter, this is how it is ! 


234 


FLORINE. 


Do you think I desire to do wrong ? — I only desire 
to be happy ; and it seems that that is bad. That is 
what I cannot resign myself to — to think that I 
may not be both happy and good. 

August 18. — O God ! were I Thee, all knowing 
and all merciful as Thou art — I should make me 
entirely to want to be good ! For it is not that I do 
not want to be good, but that I want more not to 
be good. 

An angel should be sent to stand on the other side 
of me — the weak side — to make my good self 
stronger than my wicked self. Something ought to 
happen to make all that is wrong about me right — 
seeing that I only wish to be happy, and that I do 
not wish to be bad ! 

August 19. — My hand trembles so that I can 
scarcely write. I see myself in the mirror — I nod to 
myself, to be sure it is myself. 

“ Florine ! Florine ! Is it you? Ah! — it is 

you ! It is your pure little face, that I see — your 

proud little face! That is your mouth so like a 

caress !” 

Do you think I knew we were going to the chdlet 
this evening when we climbed up the mountain 
path ? As God is my judge, I was not sanely know- 


FLORINE. 


285 


ing it ! My mind was unconscious of the real about 
me. 

Would you believe it ? — that the force that pushed 
me on and on — the invisible, irresistible force — 
seemed more real to me than Nono, who was follow- 
ing me step by step ? 

It is curious how in such moments scenes paint 
themselves upon the memory ! The sun’s last rays, 
as we ascended the path, threw a yellow light about 
us. Later a softer, a silvery light crept everywhere ; 
until high up we stood — breathless and shivering in 
the full moonlight. 

And oh, the beauty of that night ! the sweetness 
of the air ! The solitude, the love within our hearts 
— Love’s bower ! And then — and then — no hope of 
Heaven and no fear of Hell, could then have kept us 
from the bliss of loving, and the rapture of that first 
embrace ! 

******* 

I am too happy ! This is not enjoyment that I feel 
— it is delirium ! This shivering, this palpitating — 
this lightning and thunder of emotion within me 
must strike somewhere ! This is the nature of 
things. 

* ****** 

I cannot sleep ! For hours I have tossed on my 


286 


FLORINE. 


bed — and I cannot sleep ! I am afraid to sleep ! 
What “ if I should die before I wake,” — would God 
take my soul ? 

A cold dampness is on my brow ! I never was 
afraid till now that I might die before the morning. 
I could not say my prayers to-night. That was the 
first time in my life that I could not say them — that 
I was afraid to say them ! How can I pray, “ Lead 
me not into temptation ?” — to-morrow I shall want to 
be tempted — for I love Nono ! I love him ! I love 
him ! v v 

O God, dear, loving God ! — -do not let me die 
to-night? Be angry at me — very angry! Punish 
me severely — but do not let me die to-night ! Let 
me have time to repent ! Pity me — pity me ! Let 
me have time for something to happen to save me — 
something besides my own will to save me ! 

August 20. — What a frightful stain ! Not crimson, 
but black — with a blackness that nothing can efface ! 
Not time nor happiness, nor peace with God and man 
can cure the pain for that one moment’s madness ! 

What is the power that makes of us at certain 
moments irresponsible beings ? Moments in which 
we do what we would not do at others, and what we 
regret all our life having done ? Is it an evil spirit 
that takes possession of us ? 


FLORINE. 


287 


Whence this mental bewilderment and this vertigo 
of the senses that take from us the power to control 
our moral and physical actions ? Whence this some, 
times paralysis of the will and the reason and the 
common sense — of everything but a frenzied deter- 
mination to do what we know we ought not to do ? 

Look at yourself, Florine ! Then it is no matter 
that you are proud, that you are well bred, that you 
are fine in feeling and tender of heart ! — all this has 
not prevented you from doing an execrable thing ! 

4 

August 21. — You remember, my daughter, how I 
prayed for wealth ? And that I never ceased to pray 
for it till God gave it to me — in giving me Aubrey ! 
When I asked for wealth I said that I knew it was 
best for me : I asked God to make it best. 

Well, it seems that it was not best : because, had 
I not married Aubrey I should not now be like this. 

But my marriage made mamma happy, and 
Aubrey is happy — and I was happy : then all this — 
that has lately happened — is a bad result that I can- 
not reason out. And I cannot flee from it ; I cannot 
help myself out of it ; and I cannot ask God to help 
me out of it — if to be helped I must give up Nono ! 

August 23. — Who is to blame for this that has come 
into my life ? Once I was happy with Aubrey. God 


288 


FLORINE. 


knows my heart, and that I had no dream even of 
another than him, and no desire for another than his 
love. Is it my fault that Aubrey can no longer make 
me happy ? 

Why did Nono come when I was weak ? and not 
at another time when I was strong ? I prayed to be 
kept from temptation — I myself kept from it* Why 
has it been thrust at me — in my own home ? This is 
cruel. 

I remember how noble and true Aubrey was when 
Cecile tempted him. He was above disloyalty. He 
is above me — far above me. 

But Aubrey would have had no excuse for dis. 
loyalty. I was young and beautiful and strong ; and 
I am all these now. But Aubrey is not what he was 
then ; and Nono is sweet — so sweet. 

I reason like a sinner ; but I am to be pitied. 

August 27. — Poor Florine, I pity you ! You are 
such a little bit of a dot — and you have no papa and 
no mamma to pity you ! When a mother loves a 
child, and the child is very naughty, the mother 
punishes it, but she loves it still — sometimes she 
loves it more. Poor Florine ! perhaps God pities 
you — and still loves you. 

Look at that little face ! It is as pure looking as a 
rose — a white rose. But no matter about your face 


FLORINE. 


289 


— you are bad ! You are bad, first, because you can 
no longer love Aubrey as a wife ought to love her 
husband ! And you are still worse, because you 
love Nono — because you are happy with him ! 

Happy with him ! Look how your flesh quivers ! 
Hear how your heart beats at the thought of all you 
enjoy with him ! You love that enjoyment ! You 
love it ! You love it ! 

That is true. I had never forgotten Nono’s kiss, 
— the kiss, long ago, out there in the park, under the 
clump of trees. It was sucli a sweet thing ! But 
mamma was right : it was very wrong — that kiss. It 
is going to be my ruin. 

September 5. — Oh, if you knew, my daughter, how 
I desire to be good — to be good and to love Nono — 
vou would pity me ! The tears are dropping upon 
these pages ; and your heart would ache to hear my 
moans. I am crying and moaning, crying and 
moaning as I write, like a sick child — a very sick 
child. 

It is not like me to be bad — indeed, indeed 
it is not ! I do not love wantonness — I hate it. I 
hate women who are untrue to their husbands, and 
men who are untrue to their wives ! I hate deceiv- 
ing — I hate unholy living ! I love the pure, the true, 


290 


FLORINE. 


and the good ! I love wives and husbands who are 
satisfied with their own hallowed loving ! 

My mother was like this : she loved papa only, 
always — to the death ! 

I would love Nono like this : only Nono, always 
Nono — to the death ! 

But what is to be done when one thinks that one 
loves in the right way, and finds out too late that 
one does not love in the right way ? What is to 
be done when one finds that the man one is wedded 
to, ought not to be one’s husband — but that another 
man should be one’s husband ? 

Do not execrate me, preachers ! Do not condemn 
me, good people ! I am not excusing wrong — I am 
not consciously pleading for it ! I am only thinking 
that this is a very miserable state of things, and that 
it is pitiful — oh, it is pitiful ! 

And Aubrey ? I swear to you that I love him 
dearly as my own soul ! You will not understand 
this, my daughter — and I cannot explain it to you : 
but I do not love Aubrey less than I have always 
loved him ; it is only that I love him in a different 
way from my once loving him — and until Nono 
came I did not know how greatly different was this 
way. 


September 7. — I wish I could shut my eyes, and 


FLORINE. 


291 


waken them to find there never had been myself ; 
never any past ; no memories, no Aubrey, no Nono, 
no enjoyment, no pain — no anything but a coming 
into a new life with Nono — like Adam and Eve ! I 
wish — I do not know what I wish ! 

But this is what I think ; that it is a very cruel 
destiny — this, that has come into my life with no 
seeking of mine, and no fault of mine ! This, that 
makes all the good I have ever done count for 
nothing ! This, that must end sadly for some one 
of us — perhaps for all of us ! This, that makes me 
happier than I iiad ever dreamed of being — for my 
own self ; and unhappier than I had ever dreamed of 
being — for another self ! This, that I want to end at 
once — for the pain that it causes me in thinking of 
Aubrey ; but that I want to go on and on forever — 
for the enjoyment it gives me to be with Nono ! 

September 20 — I no longer let myself think of what 
I am. I shut the vision of my soul tight, tight, tight ! 
I cannot bear the silence with my conscience ; I 
keep my thoughts in a perpetual waltz upon other 
things. 

I have not ceased my praying ; but when I pray 
to be kept from evil, I pray so low, so very low — 
that even my conscience may not hear me. For 
there is an evil I wish to reserve ; and only God 


292 


FLORINE. 


Himself must hear me. And then I ask Him to pity 
me, to have mercy upon me, and to spare my sinful 
self till I repent ! For repent I must, but not now 
— God forgive me ! — not now. 

Septei?iber 26. — My God ! — What will happen to 
sober us — Nono and me ? Something horribly sad, 
or something ghastly, or something destroying, it 
will be ! 

And to think that our loving must end — must 
end ! 

No two beings ever drank deeper from all that 
love can offer of sweetness and delight, than Nono 
and I ! 

How happy we might be — how purely, how deli- 
ciously happy — were we free to be happy ! 

And Aubrey — and Aubrey ! I did love him ! I 
love him now — tenderly, truly ! But it is not like 
this love for Nono — it was never like this ! 

This happiness is not satisfaction, it is not content 
— it is not simply happiness. It is the madness of 
delight ! It is Love itself that I love — and Nono is 
Love. A thought of him is rapture, a touch from 
him is ecstasy — a caress is heaven ! 

September 27. — My daughter, you know what wealth 
is to me ? — that it is as necessary to my happiness 


FLORINE. 


293 


as the air is to my life. But this is the truth : that 
I should be glad — oh, so glad ! — to give up all that 
I gained in marrying Aubrey, if I could be free as I 
was before I married him : free to love Nono, to go 
with him, to live with him as his wife ; free to be 
happy — free to be good ! 

Nono is more than an amateur artist ; and were 
lie not rich enough for both of us, he could earn 
money by selling pictures. I could write books. 
Together v/e could make enough to live happily to 
ourselves. 

We could be happy in a cottage. We should not 
be troubled with the visits of many people. It is 
only those who sincerely love us, who care for us 
when we are poor. 

I should wear muslin gowns with ribbons, in sum- 
mer ; and pretty, dark red, and dark blue woolens 
in winter. These cost little — and they are becoming 
to me. Nono likes me best in the simplest gowns. 

Nono himself \vx>uld always be elegant, no matter 
whether his wardrobe cost little or much. Dress- 
ing is an art with him — as it is with me. 

How happy we should be ! We should try to live 
long — a hundred years. It would net be like Aubrey 
and me. 

Oh, it is easy to imagine Nono and I growing 
happily old together ! Two beings young alike, alike 


294 


FLORINE. 


full of health and warmth, loving wildly, rapturously 
for long years ; then hand in hand loving affection- 
ately and serenely for long years. Young together 
— and old together ! 

Look at yourself, Florine, — there, in the mirror ! 
You have not smiled like that for many a day. Ah 
me ! If a dream can make me so happy — what 
would the reality make of me ! 

How sweet it is to be able to be good ! We 
do not know how sweet it is — until we can no 
longer be good. 

September 29. — Aubrey is clever at crayon painting; 
and a large, well-lighted room on the third floor, is 
where he delighted himself — before his indisposition 
became a decided malady — with this crayon fancy. 
But lately he has not been further than his own 
apartment on the second floor. 

From prudence, Nono and I do not always go 
to the chdlet — where we like best to be ; but since 
Aubrey has abandoned the studio, we spend many 
happy hours there. 

Nono is working upon a sketch of the moonlight 
scene — the scene at the chdlet. I alone understand 
the secret of his enthusiastic painting of this picture. 
It is exquisite ! The darkling wood is there, the 
shimmering light, the rose-covered bower — the 


FLORINE. 


295 


whole ideal beauty of the scene ! But there are 
touches that only our memory may supply. 

October 2. — Whenever I have especially prayed in 
the past, it was with the firm faith that God would 
hear me and help me, if I would wait his way to help 
me. But I have not waited. I have wanted my 
way more than God’s way. I have wanted to sin 
more than I have not wanted to sin. And this 
gives me great fear for my stolen happiness. 

Happiness ! happiness ! I go to bed every night 
delirious with the feeling of what I have enjoyed — 
and later I cry myself to sleep. A strange happiness 
this ! 

October 4 . — Do you think that at present I carry 
my head high, and that I still think of myself as a 
small sovereign ? I do not — I do not ! 

I know that I am miserably weak. I know that 
the humblest woman, the most ignorant woman, 
who is good, who is true and loving to her husband 
— is better than I. 

But I cannot tear my loving from Nono ! 

My God, what a tenacious clinging to a lover — to 
a love ! There are some people who would not 
believe one could cling thus to a being — to an enjoy- 


296 


FLORINE. 


ment ; but there are some other people who will 
know all about it. 

October 5. — I dreamed last night that I was dead. 
I saw myself dead. 

Heaven pity me ! — how unhappy 1 am ! But let 
me be still more unhappy ! let me be tortured, cruci- 
fied ! let me be anything, in any way, to punish me 
for my sin — but do not let me die ! Oh Christ, save 
my soul ! Do not condemn me — do not let me die ! 
Thou alone knowest the power of the sweetness that 
I feel — so great I cannot give it up for the torturing 
pain that I feel. Be pitiful to me ! — be merciful to 
me ! Give me time to repent ! 

October 7. — I pity myself as were I another self. 
“To be good is to be happy,’’ people say: and I 
myself have said it. Is it not pitiful that to enjoy as 
I am now enjoying, I must be so miserable ? 

I am the happiest and the unhappiest of beings ! 
Think how happy I must be with Nono, that, when 
with him, I wholly forget my misery ! But there 
are hours when I am alone with Aubrey — hours 
when I must think only of him : and this — is terri- 
ble ! 

If in my enjoyment with Nono I could wish no 


FLORINE. 


297 


other heaven, in my torment for Aubrey I can 
imagine no surer hell. 

To be good as I once was, as I should like to be 
now — think what it is to be afraid every night of 
dying without pardon ! It is horrible ! To be as 
kind-hearted as I have always been, to suffer for the 
drowning of a fly — think what it is for me to be so 
cruel to Aubrey ! It is horrible ! To be as delicate 
in my nature as I have always been — think what it 
is for me to be deceiving Aubrey ! It is horrible ! 
It is more dreadful to be the dupe of another’s wrong- 
ing, than to know the fact of the wrong. I suffer for 
the pride of Aubrey. 

Look, Florine, at that fine little face — at the 
daintiness of that whole little being ! All that hides 
a cruel soul. Yes, you are cruel ! cruel ! cruel ! 

I can now understand the madness of loving that 
makes a coarse soul commit crime to enjoy its mad- 
ness. A coarse soul suffers no remorse for the price 
it pays for its enjoyment ; it thinks always and only 
of its enjoyment. But this is not enjoyment — it is 
beastliness. 

A fine soul suffers as much for the deceiving of 
the wronged, as it enjoys in its enjoyment. A fine 
soul would rather kill itself than kill the wronged 
one. 

Remorse ? My daughter, when my husband takes 


298 


FLORINE. 


me on his knee, when I look into his eyes — full of a 
deep, undying love for me — I am so hurt, so tortured 
by remorse, that I swear to you that an actual flesh 
tearing with red hot pincers would be a relief to the 
torture I suffer ! 

When I can no longer bear it, I hide my face on 
his breast and cry till I am exhausted. I tell him I 
cry because I want my mother ; or because he is not 
well and strong as he once was — to go with me, to 
be with me. 

Then he talks comforting words to me, and he 
sings a lullaby to me — as if I were a child. If he 
knew the truth ! If he knew really why I was cry- 
ing — God of Heaven ! — if he knew the whole why 1 

October 10. — Do you think that one can go on and 
on with impunity deceiving another as I am deceiv- 
ing Aubrey ? I do not believe it ! The soul that is 
wronged will learn of itself to suspect the wrong. 
The soul will avenge itself. My reason tells me this 
is true ; and I have a horrible dread of discovery. 
Not for my own sake — God knows this is the truth ! 
— but for Aubrey’s sake. 

For myself, I should like to see my body crucified — 
slowly crucified. An arm taken off, an ear, a foot — 
everything killed but the sense of feeling and the 
heart. I should want to feel my suffering — that only 


FLORINE. 


299 


would be punishment enough : and I should want 
my heart to keep on in its loving of Nono. 

October 14. — We live years in moments — Nono 
and I. There are little times when I am so happy 
I want to fade away into something vaguely intense 
and eternal ; later, I want to live to be happy again. 

And to think how 1 must suffer for this ! No 
matter ; the time may be short — I must enjoy ! I 
will be happy ! 

This is not Christian — it is Pagan. Alas ! I am 
very wicked — very wicked ! God, all merciful God, 
do not destroy me ! Love me and save me for what 
I should want to be, were I another self than this 
mad self ! 

October 15. — Aubrey grows more tender to me, 
more appreciative of me. He thanks me with tears 
in his eyes for what I am to him — the blessing I am 
to him. And every loving word of his is a red hot 
coal that burns its way to my heart. 

Well, so long as my husband feels my affection 
for him, is there not a sentiment in my heart for 
him as distinct and as undying as the sentiment in 
my heart for Nono ? Perhaps God knows this ; 
perhaps he pities me. 


300 


FLORINE. 


October 16. — Look into your heart, Florine ! look 
close — close — close ! There is Nono — there is your- 
self : there is Aubrey. Would you not — as you 
hope for pardon ! — would you not be willing to see 
Nono dead? and to be yourself dead? rather than 
give Aubrey the pain of knowing the truth ? 

I would ! I would ! — God knows my heart — I 
would ! 

October 18. — I want it stopped ! Stopped without 
pain to Aubrey, without pain to Nono ! I want it 
stopped without a certain pain to myself — the pain of 
losing, for always, Nono ! I want it stopped without 
my will to stop it. Oil God ! Thou knowest what I 
want — and that I am too weak to pray for it ! But 
end it '. end it ! — for Christ’s sake, end it ! 

October 19. — Last night I must have cried aloud in 
my sleep ; for I awoke to see the light burning 
brightly, and Aubrey bending anxiously over me. 

“What is the matter, little one ?” he said tenderly. 
“ Lately you look pale, and sometimes you seem 
troubled. To-night you were sobbing in your sleep. 
If you could know how it hurts me to see you like 
that !” 

, “ Oh, I was dreaming of mamma ! I think of her 


FLORINE. 


301 


so often of late ; that is what hurts me. You know 
I cannot help crying when I feel like that !” 

This seemed to satisfy him. But I am not sure that 
it did. 

October 22. — Now — God help me ! This morning 
Aubrey looked keenly at me ; and once — looking at 
Nono — a strange expression flashed from his eyes. 

October 25. — I was with Nono in the studio this 
afternoon. The picture — our picture — is finished ; 
and looking at it, all that we had felt — in the 
enchantment of that moonlight scene, in the rapture 
of that first embrace — was fresh upon us. Never 
had we been happier. Suddenly the door opened, 
and Aubrey entered. 

He strode by me — with all the fury of an out- 
raged soul — straight to Nono. 

Nono stood firm before the coming fury of the 
stroke. Had he foreseen the moment and provided 
for it ? 

“ Take this,” he said, reaching to Aubrey a small 
but deadly weapon. “You can do nothing better 
than to kill me. But kill me only ; for I only am to 
blame. Your wife is pure and good. She has just 
learned that I love her : I was telling her of it when 
you came ; and she was angry — furious. That is 


302 


FLORINE. 


the cause of her agitation. Believe me, your wife is 
entirely blameless, and entirely guiltless ! This is 
the truth— as the last words of a dying man — I 
swear it is the truth !” 

Think of it ! — and he surely expected to die ! He 
fully believed these solemn assurances to be his last ! 
And — would you believe it ? there was not a tremor 
in his voice, as he stood squarely before Aubrey — 
waiting ! But when he is dead, his face will not be 
whiter than it then was white. 

Aubrey looked amazed, then mysterious, then 
pitiful — first at Nono, then at me. 

Did he know nothing ? Had he suspected anything ? 
Did he believe Nono and pity him ? Or did he 
divine the truth and pity us both ? 

Never shall I know — never till the Judgment Day 
shall I know ! But this is what he said : 

“ You are right. For the moment I was mad. 
Florine is not to blame — of course she is not to 
blame ! And you — how could you help loving 
Florine ? It has been my fault — if it has been the 
fault of any one. By the way, my dear boy, you 
said last night you were going away to-day. You 
will want to take the evening train, of course ; and 
you will have little enough time to make ready.” 

The two men looked steadily at each other, as 


FLORINE. 


303 


Aubrey said this. Both are equally well bred, both 
are intelligent. And this was the end. 

But never, never while my sense of living lives, 
shall I forget that first look of Aubrey’s face, and of 
Nono’s, and the look I saw within the mirror of 
my own face — when Aubrey came so suddenly 
before us ! Never shall I forget one coloring of 
that frightful comedy that was so near a tragedy [ 

And Nono would have died — died for me. I 
should have died too ; in my madness — by my own 
self — I should have died. 

Alone with Aubrey, the reaction was terrible. My 
sobs were convulsive, heart breaking. 

“Aubrey ! Aubrey ! I do not want to hurt you ! I 
have never wanted to hurt you ! As God is my 
Judge, I would rather suffer any torture than cause 
you a moment of real suffering ! Will you believe 
me ? — Aubrey ! Aubrey ! — do you believe me ?” 

“ Poor little one ! Of course I believe you ! I 
know the tenderness of your little heart for me — I 
know your heart better than you know it !” 

These words of Aubrey’s are my comfort. They 
have given me courage to live. 

God knows — this is the truth : that it was not of 
Nono, and not of myself I thought in that dread 
hour of discovery ! It was only of Aubrey. It was 
an immense pity for him : that, Nono dead and I 


304 


FLORINE. 


dead, my husband should still live on, alone — to 
remember everything, to suffer everything. 

But he believes Nono — and he pities me. And 
what if he had not believed Nono — where should we 
be now, Nono and I ? how should we be ? 

But why should Aubrey pity me — if he believes 
Nono ? Is it only because he feels that I fear that 
he doubts me ? His pity is not like that — it is 
deeper than that ! 

And why the sudden opening of the door ? — the 
abrupt and furious coming of Aubrey ? Why the 
awful pallor of his face ? 

Hold ! I have a ghastly fear — a ghastly suspicion ! 

******* 

Aubrey knows ! — he knows the truth ! And what 
now — what ? 

My suspicion is now a discovery. I have just 
been to the studio — where it happened. I examined 
the door, and I found one — two — three perforations, 
through which one could see within ! For some 
moments I could not think : I was petrified. It 
seemed to me that an eternity of torture was await- 
ing me. 

Aubrey knows the tVuth. He knew it when he 
entered the studio — and he does not believe Nono ! 


FLORINE. 


305 


He understood — he pitied — he forgave ! In his 
anger he was manlike — in his pity he was Christ-like. 

And from this man my happy sense has stolen 
away — my happy life has slipped away ! Let me go 
to him — let me kneel at his feet ! But I am not 
worthy to do even this ! 

:£ $ $ $ $ $ $ 

Aubrey is not a man — he is an angel ! His love 
and his compassion — they are not of Earth, they are 
of Heaven ! 

A little while ago I went to him, I threw myself at 
his feet. I kissed his hands — I bathed them with 
my tears. 

“I love you, Aubrey ! I love you ! Oh, you are 
so good — so good ! I would rather die — rather any 
one should die than bring pain to you !’* 

Do you know what he did — this wronged and 
loving man ? — He took me to his heart — as a mother 
takes her child, he took me. 

“ My Florine, why will you distress yourself thus 
— in thinking that I doubt your love for me ? Ido 
not doubt it. I know you love me. It is as I have 
said — I know your heart better than you know it. 
And Nono — he is less to blame for loving you than 
you may think — and he is to be pitied. Florine, do 
you know that an individual may sometimes do 


306 


FLORINE. 


wrong when he really desires only to do right ? 
The temptation is simply stronger than his strength. 
That individual is not wicked — lie is weak. He is 
not to be condemned — he is to be pitied : you must 
think of Nono in this way, my child." 

My God ! that was my own reasoning — when I 
reasoned for myself ! In speaking of Nono — did 
Aubrey mean me ? In appearing to excuse Nono — 
was he, in pity, excusing me ? 

But whatever he suspects, whatever he knows — it 
cannot be the whole truth ! 

Perhaps he believes that I have been tempted, only 
— and that it is this tempting that, for his sake and 
my own sake, distresses me ! Perhaps this is why 
he pities me — and why he believes still in my love. 

And he is not mistaken : I do love him — but as one 
must love an angel. It is Nono that I love with all 
the sweetness and the passion of a human love. 

And the perforations ? — the perforations ? They 
may have been made by another, in other days 
than these ! But I cannot be sure that Aubrey did 
not make them — or that he did not make use of 
them. 

And Nono ! — what of him ? I hear him walking 
— walking — walking above my head. 

Oh, if I could only go to him ! But I must not — 
I dare not ! I can never again be alone with him. 


FLORINE. 


307 


Alone with him ? God of Heaven ! — I can never 
again be any way with him ! He is going away ! — 
Aubrey wishes him to go ! Nono must himself wish 
to go — and I ought to wish him to go ! 

What could I have been thinking of, to think of 
anything but this ? that Nono is going away — that 
lie must go away ! And he can never come back ! 
After what has happened — lie can never come 
back ! 

He is getting ready now to go away ! Ah ! — he no 
longer walks ! — he is ready — he is going ! He is 
ringing the bell ! 

They are carrying trunks from Nono's room. My 

hand trembles. These lines are not straight. lean- 
% 

not see ! My head is spinning — my brain is burn- 
ing ! The whole sense of living is confused and 
unreal ! 

God forgive me ! I must see Nono^-I will see 
him ! 

* * * * * * * 

He is gone / Gone without a word to me — without 
a look for me ! 

When I went down stairs Aubrey was there. He 


308 


FLORINE. 


did not leave us for a moment, he did not once turn 
his eyes from Nono. 

Nono’s face was white and unreadable. He 
understood that he was not to speak to me — not to 
look at me. It was thus that he went from me — • 
forever from me. 

Of course, Aubrey was right : there should have 
been no other way to part from Nono — I should not 
have wished another way ; but all I had suffered 
was as nothing to my suffering then. 

How is it that I did not cry aloud ? That I did 
not swoon ? That I did not do something in the 
madness of those moments to betray the intensity of 
what I felt ? 

My daughter, let me tell you that I think in those 
moments my heart received a mortal hurt. 

In spite of my self control, was there something 
to pity in my face? Perhaps; for Aubrey said, 
“ Poor child !” and then he left me all alone — a very 
long time all alone. He is so fine — is Aubrey. 

October 26. — And I thought that I had suffered in 
the past! Papa’s death, poverty, mamma’s death — 
God knows ! — all this was suffering ! And yet — and 
yet — it was not like this suffering ! 

Am I not fitted to live ? Am I not young, and 


FLORINE. 


309 


beautiful, and strong ? And yet — O God, look into 
my heart! am I not sincere in my desire to die? 
to leave this world — if I must live without Nono, 
without his love ? 

I must be very miserable ! I must have reached 
my limit of unhappiness — when I long for the rest of 
the grave ! But I do long for it — I do long for it ! 

And to think that I have been praying and praying 
to God to end it — to end it without my wanting to end 
it ! And now that it is ended, I want to die rather 
than bear the ending. 

You see, my daughter, there is nothing of the 
heroic in me. 

How the tears fall and fall — and such tears ! This 
is what it is to be 4 grown up.’ It was not like this 
I wept when I was a child. 

November 2. — To think that when dreadful things 
happen — things that change one’s entire being ; 
when all that one sees and hears, and all that is done 
about one seems unreal ; when actual sights and 
sounds forced upon one’s senses are an agony ! — to 
think that one must array one’s self, must frivole and 
chatter, and laugh, and behave every way as if one 
is happy, as if nothing unusual had happened — 
absolutely nothing! Is not this horrible’ 


310 


FLORINE. 


In all this misery there is one relief — the thought 
that Aubrey is happy ; that I have made him happy. 
For I am sure he never thinks of what I am always 
thinking ; he is too reposeful, too content. 

November 7. — The doctors are mistaken : Aubrey 
will not always be an invalid. To their surprise he 
is becoming a well man. 

Do you think that I do not pray to be all that a 
wife should be to her husband ? You are mistaken. 
I do pray ! — I do ! 

But I know I shall never be able to be what I pray 
to be. I shall never again enjoy the old happiness 
with Aubrey — I could not be satisfied with it. And 
I shall never again have the new happiness — with 
Nono : there is no forgetting of these frightfully 
plain truths. 

And what will my life be to go on like this — to be 
living for Aubrey, and to feel always apart from 
him ? 

My life may not go on. This always keeping of 
myself within myself, may kill me. Do you think I 
feel sorry in thinking this ? — I feel thankful for it. 

November 13. — All hope is dead. Until now I have 
had a faint hope that in some way I should hear 
from Nono, or by some chance see him. But, he has 


FLORINE. 


311 


gone. Ilis name is in the list of passengers that 
sailed this morning. 

They lie — who say any other suffering is equal to 
the pain of a lost love. All other suffering is to this 
as water unto wine. The mind suffers from remorse, 
the sense from disappointments, the heart from 
bereavements. But this is a hurt to the mind and 
the sense and the heart. A hurt that never heals ; 
and that ends only with death — death to the sensi- 
bility, or death to the individual. 

And I am so young — so healthy of blood, of 
muscle, and of nerve! It will be long — oh God! — 
so long to keep my suffering sense ! Then let me 
die — in mercy — let me die ! 

November 1 6. — Oh, this pain ! To think that I can 
never again be glad — that I cannot ! 

To think that the birds, the blossoms, the joyous 
sounds, the sweet scents, the fair sights — all these 
that once made me so glad — can never again make 
me glad — that they can not ! And I look a lie, I act 
a lie — for I seem to be glad. 

December 5. — Aubrey is steadily gaining his old 
vitality. God knows ! — I am thankful for the return 
of my husband’s health ! I am thankful ! But with 
this thankfulness is a feeling for my own self, that 


312 


FLORINE. 


is crucifying. I see a time when I shall hate— when 
I shall have a horror of myself. 

May God forgive me !— it is that I am thinking I 
am Nono's wife . — and not Aubrey’s ! 

There is something diabolical in this feeling that 
has come upon me. It is a punishment for my sin. 
And I must not let any one suspect that I am at 
all unhappy— above all, I must not let Aubrey sus- 
pect it. 

December 9. — Oh, this soul-sickening sense of my 
changed life — this sense of perpetual unhappiness 
that comes to me with the waking of every day, and 
stays with me into the dreams of every night I End 
it, pitying Christ — end it ! 

December 21. — I have done all that human resolu- 
tion and praying can do, to make myself love Aubrey 
as I loved him in the first years of our marriage. 
But I have not been able to do it — and I feel like a 
criminal. I love him as the creature loves the divine, 
as the mortal adores the angel. I must say this — for 
it is the truth. 

December 26. — Dear, loving God — let me die ! 

My daughter, do you think this is a frenzied utter- 


FLORINE. 


313 


ance ? I declare it is not ; and that were this really 
my last hour to live — it would still be my wish to 
die. 

I am no longer afraid to die. I have asked God 
to forgive me — and I feel that I am forgiven. 

I can now understand my mother’s weariness of 
life — that once seemed so difficult to understand. 

This is how it is, my daughter ; I would never, of 
my own self, give upNono — but I am willing to give 
up my life. I could never be sure of my future — and 
I have no longer the courage to live. 

Is not this pitiful, after all my grand opinions of 
myself ? — after all of the immense vanity I have had 
of myself ? 

Do you think I am vain of myself in these days ? 
Indeed — indeed I am not ! I am thoughtful for 
myself — dainty for myself from habit. But I care 
nothing for myself. 

I do not ask now to be cremated when I am dead* 
I do not care that worms will eat me.. And I do not 
think of how I shall look in my casket. I no longer 
exact the little cream ribboned gown, and the roses. 
I only want to die — to get rid of this always choking, 
pressing, hurting pain ! 

December 29. — I am tired thinking and tired feeling. 
I am sure that I am goingto be ill — or mad. And in 


314 


FLORINE. 


the delirium of the one, or in the madness of the other, 
I shall undo all the good I have done. Aubrey will 
then know the truth : he will know that my loving 
of Nono was not a passion only — but that it is my 
life . 


FLOIUNE. 


315 


1884 . 


January 4. — The physicians have just told me that 
Aubrey may die — that he may die of blood poisoning. 
It was only a scratch from a favorite cat — that he liked, 
that he fondled — and he may die from it. 

I write this with a dreadful calmness — the calm- 
ness of horror. 

To recover unexpectedly from a grave malady — 
and to die suddenly of a trifling scratch ! — Is not this 
atrocious ? 

January 6. — And to think that Aubrey may die ! — 
that my husband may die ! Do you not pity me ? 

Nothing could be worse than for Aubrey to die ! 
No matter what might come for me in the future — I 
could never, never again be happy ! Remorse would 
make it impossible for me to be happy ! 

Th is is another punishment for my sin. My suffer- 
ing is the suffering of the damned. 

God knows my heart — and that in praying for the 
end to come, I never thought of this end ! I thought 
of Nono’s death, and of my own — but I never once 
thought of Aubrey’s death ! Perhaps it was because 


316 


FLORINE. 


the physicians assured me that his malady was 
chronic, and that no one ever died of it. And when 
unexpectedly he recovered from that malady — still 
less likely was I to think of his death. 

But I have thought how happy I might be had I 
not married Aubrey — how happy I should be were 
I Nono’s, and not Aubrey’s wife ! And if Aubrey 
dies I shall feel like a murderess. 

January io. — There is no longer a hope ! Aubrey 
is going to die ! 

And this is to be the end ! — What a frightful 
end ! 

This that I feel is more than suffering — it is hor- 
ror ! 

It is as though something sinister was confront- 
ing me ; something immovable, solemn — final ! 

January n. — Aubrey talks to me with an infinite 
lovingness that would comfort me all the days of my 
life — if I deserved to be comforted. He talks of the 
good I have been to him, of the happiness I have 
brought to him. 

My God ! I thank Thee — more than for all else I 
thank Thee — to have given to me the suffering, and 
not to Aubrey ! 

I would give all I possess to know what Aubrey 


FLORINE. 


317 


knows — or what lie once suspected : to know why 
lie forgave — why he yet loves — why he is so happy ! 
But I shall never know — and I shall never be able to 
be happy ! 

January 15. — Aubrey is dead. I think if I could 
cry on Aubrey's heart, it would be better with me. 
I should want him to sing a lullaby to me. But 
Aubrey is dead — and I can not cry. 

Aubrey loved me. I loved him once as he loved 
me. Later I think I must have loved him more than 
he loved me — I loved him as one loves a divine 
being. He is in Heaven now, and I may keep on 
loving him like that. 

I shall never have another friend like Aubrey. 
Could I have married Nor.o, and Aubrey were no 
longer mine — I should have wished to keep always 
Aubrey for my friend. I suppose, were it not a sin, 
I should never have been willing to give up either 
Aubrey or Nono. 

I am very tired. I was lying down before I began 
to write. I think I should like to sleep for a long 
time — a very long time. I never was tired like this. 

I have a right now to be unhappy. I need no 
longer pretend to be gay. I can weep now, and no 
one will be surprised that I weep. 


318 


FLORINE. 


And now it seems that I cannot weep. I* do not 
even feel acutely. Something seems to have gone 
from me. 

But I am very tired. I feel heavy all over. My 
eyes close from time to time while I am writing, 
and I do not want to open them. My fingers 
move clumsily. I feel very hot— and now a villain- 
ous coldness makes me shiver. I feel very — very 
tired. 

March 1 6. — I have been very ill. No one expected 
me to get well. The physicians could not decide 
what was the matter with me. I alone knew : I did 
not want to get well. I was thankful to be able to lie 
there day after day in a painless, half conscious con- 
dition. I was so satisfied to know — by the looks of 
those about me — that I was going to die. 

No one who is healthy in body, and hopeful of 
heart, can understand this feeling of doneness witli 
life. 

And to think that I have wanted to live for a hun- 
dred years ! So little we know — when we want in 
the present — what we shall yet want ! 

But it seems I was not to die. It seems that my 
little sinful body was stronger than my will and my 
malady : and I am to go on living. How am I to 
go on ? 


FLORINE. 


319 


1885 . 

~ V 

June 20 . — It is a year since I came Abroad — and 
almost two since the fatal coming of Nono. 

Is it not wonderful, that one must owe the turning 
and overturning of one’s thinking and feeling to so 
small an event as the coming of a single individual? 
That one must owe to it an entire change of one’s 
life — a complete breaking-up of one’s former life? 

This is what has happened for me. It lias doubt- 
less also happened for others. 

I am now in Switzerland. I was curious to come 
— to see how I should feel to see again the moun- 
tains : I loved them so. 

But the enjoyment is not the same. It is simply 
receptive — and gives repose. It is not sympathetic — 
and gives no delight. It is here as it is everywhere 
with me — no longer the same. 

I had once too much of enjoyment ; later I had 
too much of pain. I have exhausted the one and 
the other. What is left is what is always left of 
excess — the ravages made by its course. 

And my health ? — my physician is not satisfied 
with it. These mountains are to restore it. A little 


320 


FLORINE. 


climbing of them, however, fatigues me — where 
once I climbed much of them without fatigue. So 
my good health has not come back to me. 

My body is not so strong as it was — but my soul is 
stronger. Had I felt like this in other days, I would 
have been martyred rather than to be culpable. But I 
was not feeling like this — and Nono was near to me. 

Then it seems it is not always a spiritual sense of 
the vanity of earthly enjoyment and the sinfulness of 
it, that enables one — in the full possession of it — to dis- 
like it and to turn away from it : it is a fatigue of 
the mind and a weariness of the flesh ; a feebleness 
of the body and a dulled sense of life. 

Do you imagine that I can help thinking that I am 
now free to enjoy all the happiness I once enjoyed ? 
I do think of it, I keep thinking of it — and it brings 
to my heart no sense of gladness, and to my troubled 
memory no relief. 

How happy we might be now — Nono and I — if I 
had only waited ! If I had only prayed — and waited ! 

That is the only one right way ; remember this, 
my daughter — no matter what it costs of self denial 
and suffering ! Alas ! the suffering that comes from 
the bringing about of the wished for in our own 
way — is a thousand times more of suffering than 
God permits to us in the bringing about of it in 
His way ! 


FLORINE. 


321 


Do you fancy I have not been thinking of Nono 
because for so long a time I have not told you what 
I have been thinking ? 

I think perpetually of him ; and I think perpetually 
of Aubrey — I cannot think of one without thinking 
of the other. I am sure that Nono is thinking as per- 
petually of me, and that he is only waiting for a word 
to bring him to me. 

I do not send him that word. I have a fear in my 
heart that I shall suffer more in my enjoyment with 
him, than in my longing for him. Now that I know 
I am free to marry him, I find a strange joy in think- 
ing that I will not. There is a happiness in this self 
banishment from Nono — the happiness of a soul in 
purgatory. 

All women will understand this Catholic spirit, and 
men — perhaps not. 

July 15. — I have had a letter from Nono. The 
reading of that letter has started faint thrills of the 
old delight ; and I — I shall send the word. 

Why not ? Why should I make Nono as unhappy 
as myself? It is not his fault that he loves me — that 
he loved me ! 

Of two — one that is married, and one that is not — 
who permit a sentiment to take possession of them, 
the married one is alone responsible. The unmarried 


322 


FLORINE. 


cannot at all comprehend the immense seriousness 
of the taking of one being before the whole world to 
live with him, to be with him as one’s self. 

/was to blame. I should have fled from Nono — 
or I should have bidden him to flee from me. 

For I hold that it is impossible for certain beings 
with a certain temperament, who are in the fullness 
1 of health and strength, to renounce an illegitimate 
enjoyment — in the face of it — either by praying, or by 
their own will. They must flee from it. 

There are good people who would execrate this 
belief , but there are other good people who would 
know what I mean, and that I am right. 

August 12. — Nono is here. He does not speak of 
the past, and he has asked me not to speak of it. 

“Let us forget it !” he said, shuddering and pal- 
ing. “Let us live for the present — let us live for 
our love !” 

And I believe he can forget it — all but the joy — he 
is so happy hearted, so thankful to be with me. 

September 3. — We have been married a week — 
Nono and I. We were very quietly married ; and 
we shall remain Abroad. 

September 20. — The glad sense of living has come 


FLORINE. 


323 


back to me ; and my good health lias come back. 
It is not the mountains of Switzerland that have 
done this for me — it is the nearness to Nono that 
has done it. 

It is the heart, then, that tempers this human life, 
as it sustains it. When the heart is hurt and weary, 
it sends its hurting and weariness to all about it. 
When the heart is satisfied, the whole mortal beino- 
is satisfied. My heart is happy. My heart — it is 
Nono’s. 

But the soul ? — it gives me no peace. The soul — 
it is not happy ! 

Then the senses may enjoy, the heart may be 
satisfied — and the soul give us no peace ! 

The soul is not of this human life. The soul — it is 
God’s : and rejnorse is the soul's accuser. 

My daughter — be good ! No matter what be the 
temptation and the torment of a desire — be good ! 
Remember this — for, by Heaven ! it is true : that no 
happiness, no rapture — :io heaven ot enjoyment of 
which we shall have the memory, can make us 
forget the suffering, the remorse — the hell of punish- 
ment for the wrong doing that was the price of that 
enjoyment ! 

Would you believe it? even in my happiest 
moments with Nono, I can not forget ! Remorse is 
stronger than my enjoyment — stronger than my love. 


324 


FLORINE. 


It is more tenacious than sorrow — more tenacious 
than joy. It is the worm that will not die. 

October 4. — Nono is all that I believed him to be. 
There are no disappointments in his loving. He is 
all that he once was ; and I have everything to 
make me happy — everything but that one unhappy 
memory. 

I shall not remember ! 

The leaves of last year are now dust ; but the trees 
of this year were all green. The flowers of last 
summer are dead ; but this summer’s flowers had 
their bloom. New life comes from the old life. 
Nature forgets : I too will forget. 

November 16. — It is a lie ! I can not forget — I shall 
never be able to forget ! 

Notio is dead ! The fair Nono, — the loving Nono — 
is dead. 

To die when we were happiest, to die in my arms 
— to die of too much happiness ! Was there not a 
ghastly destiny in this ? 

And this is the end of our loving, the end of our 
enjoyment — the end forever ! 

Did I not say once that it must end in death ? 
It has ended only in death ! Aubrey is dead — Nono is 


FLORINE. 


325 


dead — and I, — though among the living — am as one 
dead ! 

Nono dead ! — dead ! — dead ! And I not mad ? or 
not lying there — cold and still as he ? In the first 
days of our loving I should have been one or the 
other — or both ! There is no doubt about that. 

But I am no longer myself. I do not even feel 
what I suffer. The pain to my mind is what the phy- 
sical agony is to the dying : they suffer to the last — 
but it is unconscious suffering. 

This is the last punishment for my sin — the 
supreme punishment ! It is a just punishment — but 
it has broken my heart ! 


326 


FLORINE. 


1888 . 


December 27. — And my child — Nono’s child ? It 
reminds me only of Aubrey ! 

Think of it ! Nono’s child and my child — and it 
looks at me with the grave sweet eyes, and the face of 
Aubrey ! 

What a strange freak this ! — what a sinister freak ! 
I was thinking then of Aubrey — when I was madly 
loving Nono ! 

Do you see ? My child was not given to me to 
comfort me, it was given to rebuke me. 

This is still another punishment, added to the 
final punishment — that my child should be an 
avenger. 

My daughter, this is how it is : I am nevermore to 
be at peace — I am nevermore to be happy ! 


THE END. 


HAY AGNES FLEMING’S 

POPULAR NOVELS. 



The following is a list of the Novels by the Author of “ Guy Earls* 
court’s Wife.” 


Silent and True. 

A Wonderful Woman. 
A Terrible Secret. 
Norine’s Revenge. 

A Mad Marriage. 

One Night’s Mystery. 
Kate D ant on. 

Guy Earlscourt’s Wife. 
Heir of Charlton. 

The Queen of the Isle. 


Carried by Storm. 
Lost for a Woman. 
A Wife’s Tragedy. 
A Changed Heart. 
Pride and Passion. 
Sharing Her Crime. 
A Wronged Wife. 


Maude Percy’s Secret. 

The Actress* Daughter. 
The Midnight Queen (New) 


These vols. can be had at any bookstore in the cloth-bound library 
edition. Price, $1.50. 


“ Mrs. Fleming’s stories a e growing more and more popular every 
clay. Their delineations of character, life-like conversations, 
flashes of wit, constantly varying scenes, and deeply 
interesting plots, combine to place their author 
in the very first rank of Modern Novelists. 


All handsomely printed and bound in cloth, sold everywhere, 
and sent by mail, postage free, on receipt of price ($1.50), by 


G. W. DILLINGHAM, Publisher, 


Successor 


. rtf, G. W. CARLETON & COMPANY, 

33 WEST 23rd STREET. NEW YORK. 


MARION HARLAND'S 


SPLENDID NOVELS 


The following is a list of the Novels by the Author of “ Alone/’ 


ALONE. 

HIDDEN PATH. 
MOSS SIDE. 
NEMESIS. 

MIRIAM. 

SUNNY BANK. 
RUBY’S HUSBAND. 
AT LAST, 


MY LITTLE LOVE. 
PHEMIE’S TEMPTATION. 
THE EMPTY HEART. 
FROM MY YOUTH UP. 
HELEN GARDNER. 
HUSBANDS AND HOMES. 
JESSAMINE. 

TRUE AS STEEL. 


These vols. can be had at any bookstore in the cloth-bound library 
edition. Price, $1.50. 


“It is a strong proof of Marion Harlnnd’s ability, that she has 
been able, for such a length of time, to retain her hold upon the 
public. The secret of her success is that her books are truly excel- 
lent/’ — Phila . Times. 

“ Marion Harland understands the art of constructing a plot 
which will gain the attention of the reader at the beginning, and 
keep up the interest unbroken to the last page.” — Phila. Telegram. 

“Marion Harland is very popular because she is natural and 
chaste. She is welcome to the home circle because she is imbued 
with the holiest principles. She arranges her plots with great skill, 
and developes them with language commendable for purity and ear- 
nestness of expression .” — Loclcport Union. 

“As a writer of fiction, Marion Harland has attained a wide 
and well-earned reputation. Her novels are of surpassing excellence 
and interest .” — Home Journal. 

m 

All handsomely printed and bound in cloth, sold everywhere, 
and sent by mail, postage free, on receipt of price ($1.50), by 

G. W. DILLINGHAM, Publisher, 

Successor to 

x££ Q. W. CARLETON & COMPANY, 

33 WEST 23rd STREET. NEW VORK. 












fiif* * ^ 

o J _> 

• v'<‘ 

^ -iaK^. %**♦ *: 

% ' **' ° ' "V^ 0 " °« 

Av W ^ v" 

m ■ ■ -mJjl «5 -^J. ' ' 0O - 

'"■0° °° % !^*V Vcv-; >v 



KMtatnvAi lurt i ci^nrauiA 

1114 William Flinn Highway 
HS Glenshaw.PA 15116-2667 
412-486-1161 





^ % 

A V* 

J tr * S S \ ' O, <t 

<*■ ,-& X V H «, O 

' v V , 

. ^o' 

\ 0 ^, 


' X 0 ° c\ y 

■Vf* . s, * * 7 *^> * ■> N 0 ^ \^ i ' : 

js° °* v ^*°, > 

* V ^ ,Wa v ^ ^ 

</> r<V „ rI\\V^^//>7. e ^ <0 

2 2 




0 - 


O'. v 

o o' 



♦ ^ ^ ^ v <■ v 1 8 « ^o 

^ -jN *-'»**- 1 O 

, ^ V* 

> y 

\\J o y >, -\* 

cOr s * * , ^ * $ h 0 ° \^ ^ 

A 0 V »' '* O \> T.'° 0 , ' 

• 4 ” *'v«£»k.', ^ , >■ 

«'“- # * 

z 


cT> ^ 


r <£* /* 

c ^ ^ 

„ -"%J * ■ '* '. ?% \* .* % %™»w~ 

7 * *(* S a\^ . , * ^ y 0 * X * ^ G ^ *y s X N < 

<%> ^ ,<1 ' 1 * * T Cj C \ T , o * (7 A ^ / * * S A \ 

' © * lsiSX -> 1 O /U ^ 

, -v ^ *#&%&?+ (> s + ..* 

, ^ V „ / ; V% 1 ;' ..^ * ,J b o x ® 

* o o u- \ i i j, ,’•. * 







